LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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JACOB HUFF. 




(Jacob Huff:) 



JUL 261895* 



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Knfered according to Act of Cougiess, in the vear I«'t5. hy JACOB HUFI". 

in the ottice of the Librarian of Cousjress, 

at AVashingfon. 



Press of Penusyhauia Grit, 
AVillianisport. Pa. 



AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. 



5INCE it is the custom of authors to write a sort of 
apologetic preface for their works, I will work one 
into roine, although I do not know what I could say 
that would make the stuffing of the book suit the tasie 
of those who have no taste for verse. 

Almost ever>'body will be disappointed in this book, 
because they have been expecting something humor- 
ous. But there is a sad and serious side to every man's 
life, and in mine there has been a homesick feeling 
haunting my soul since I came West, and, while roam- 
ing over the deserts of Colorado, where the silence feels 
as heavy and gloomy as the shadow of death, these 
songs came into my heart like requiems sung over the 
graves where I am fast burying the memories of my 
boyhood friends ; for the many faces I loved in the long 
ago seem to be fading away from Memory's view, like 
the little whirlwinds of sand that go dancing out 
towards the horizon and disappear forever. 

My next book will be in prose, giving the humorous, 
pathetic and wicked sides of Western life, and will be 
my master- work. I have been already two years col- 
lecting material for this book, and it will take one year 
more to complete the work. It will be called 

''THE MORTAL CINCH ; 

a tale of the 

Sins and Sorrows of the Wild and 

Wicked West." 

Look out for it in the near future. 

Faraway Moses. 

(Jacob Huff.) 



INDEX. 



Page. 



Out on the Desert, 

Charlie, 

Little Injun Dick, 

Superstition, 

The Cow Boy's Wife 

Forethought, 

It Is Easy to Talk, 

Thunder Storm on the Rockies 

Song of the Burro, . 

The Miser of Lost Canyon, 

If Christ Were Here, 

Silver Threads, . 

The Lost Troopers, 

vSmothered Thoughts, 

The Cliff Dwellers, 

You and I Together, . 

Left Behind, 

Little Maverick, . 

Dreaming of Home, 

Oblivion, 

O-Na-Wee-Ta, . 

My Church, . 

Alone by the River, 

Casting Bread, 

A Slight Mistake, 

Bedtime, 

There is No Friendship, 

The Curse of Colorado, 

The Accursed Cities, 

Don't Forget Your Mother. 

The Old Stone Fence, 

God Never Willed It So, 

The Sheep Herder. 

The Wise Bov, 

The Stranger, . 

Pleading Eyes, 

November, 

Flowers My Mother Loved 

The Weary Wanderer, 

Who Spoiled the Poet, 

My Doubts, 

Back Again, . 

The Contrast, . 

While Betsy Played the Organ, 

Happy ! Happy New Year 

Looking Down the Road, 



lo 

12 

13 
14 
15 
16 

17 
19 
21 

23 

25 
27 

31 
^^ 
36 
38 
41 
42 
45 
47 
49 
50 
52 
53 
54 
55 
56 
57 
60 
62 
64 
65 
66 
67 
68 
70 
72 
74 
76 
77 
78 

80 

82 

84 



INDCX-Continued. 



A Child of Fate, 

My Creed, .... 

Art, 

Thoughts on Theosophy, 
Society, ..... 

Ufa, 

Ufe's Bloody Battle, 
A Bad Cough, 

Myself, 

Philosophy of the Hat, 

My Farm, .... 

Desert Heart, 

My Il,ove Story, 

Poor Farmer Boy, 

When Daddy Said the Blessing 

Dreamland Faces, 

I^ove, 

The Bully, .... 

The Cries Go Up to Heaven, 

Ready to Go, 

He Shocked the World, 

lyife is All Guess- Work, 

Little Nell, 

lone, .... 

Rural Melodies, 

Ebb and Flow, 

After Many Years, . 

Frost Bites, 

Quotin' Skriptoor, . 

The Chief End of Man, 

The Silent Somewhere, 

She Never Knew, 

Changes, .... 

What the Spirits Told Me, 

Who Lies Here ? 

Grandpa's Baby, . 

We Are Blind, 

Jilted 

Love's Young Dream, 
Retrospect, . 
Going to Mill, . 



Page. 

. 86 



88 
89 

91 
92 

95 
96 
97 
99 
100 
ro2 
104 
105 
108 
no 
III 
III 

112 

117 
119 
121 

123 

125 
127 
128 
130 
132 

135 
137 
138 
141 
142 
144 

146 
148 
150 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



C «-T/2/E^ ^Z/Z'l'-lr— ♦ 



OUT ON THE DESERT. 



Were you ever on the desert, 

out on Colorado's plains? 
Where the sun shines hot all vSummer, 

and it ver}' seldom rains ; 
Where the grease wood and the salt-sage 

are the only living thing, 
Except some lonely flowers 

in the early months of Spring ; 
And the prairie-dog and rabbit, 

and the raven's lonely "caw," 
And the air so sad with silence 

that it fills your soul with awe. 
Oh, it's awful tramping over 

through the silence strange and odd. 
And the sun-rays pouring on you 

like the vengeance of your God. 
There are mountains all around you, 

in the distance looking blue. 
With their peaks in the horizon, 

just as tho' they'd stabbed it through 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



And the highest covered over 

with a coat of ice and snow, 
So far above the timber-line 

where trees can never grow ; 
And they look so strange and dreary 

looming up so high and odd — 
Look as tho' they frowned upon you, 

and were lonelier than God : 
And you wonder if they stood there 

through so many million years, 
And were always cold and lonely 

and unmoved by human tears. 
And the winds rush by so silent, 

sending dust clouds in the air, 
For there's no trees, with their branches, 

to obstruct the passage there ; 
And the sky .seems far and distant, 

painted in the deepesi blue. 
And there's not the smallest cloudlet 

to obstruct the distant view. 
But the silence, oh, the silence ! 

fills your soul with nameless fears. 
And 3'our heart is aching, aching, 

filled with dreams of former 3"ears ; 
And the dr}- plains, parch 'd and barren, 

and the sand-hills standing bare. 
Here and there the bones of cattle 

bleaching in the silent air: 
And you wonder if in Heaven 

God remembers this lone place. 
If he looks on it in pity, 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



seeing it in the embrace 
Of this awful, death-like silence, 

and the great sun's burning ra3'S ; 
Where all nature cries for water 

through the burning summer days : 
And you wonder if the angels 

know how all these cattle died 
Of thirst and grim starvation, 

on this desert parch 'd and dried ; 
And your heart grows sad and heavy 

as you onward silent plod, 
Looking to the far-off mountains, 
standing lonely as their God. 
But yet, with all its horrors, 

and its dreadful, barren state, 
]\Ien are trying to reclaim it, 

even tho' the task is great ; 
For there seems to be a hunger 

in the human heart for land. 
And the poor men, who are driven 

from their homes with empty hand, 
Will now face this dreadful silence, 
and, where nature does oppose. 
Will, by careful irrigation, 

bloom this desert like the rose : 
And the mountains over yonder 

watching these poor people plod, 
Will know they feel the silence, 
and are lonelier than God. 



SOX(VS OF THE DESERT. 



charijp:. 



In the vSpring time when we parted, 
I remember how love smarted, 
And she left me broken-hearted, 

For her parents frowned on me. 
To the far West they did take her, 
Thinking I would then forsake her, 
But this promise I did make lier : 

Charlie, I will come for thee I 

Oh, the sad and wear}' waiting, 
And my poor heart nearh' breaking ; 
Xo one else could feel the aching, 

Nor the shadows could the^' see. 
But the years went slowly crawling. 
Thrice the Winter snows came falling, 
And my heart was ever calling : 

Charlie, I will come for thee ! 

In the twilight shadows falling. 
And the Coyote's dismal calling. 
And the wear}- cattle bawling. 

Pictures Western life to me. 
On the old Ute reservati n. 
There is one sage-brush plantation ; 
From the little railroad station 

Charlie's new home one can see. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



To this cabin I'm advancing, 

While my blood goes through me dancing, 

Visions my poor heart entrancing, 

For my loved one I can see. 
To the gate with one hand clinging — 
Hark, I hear her sweet voice singing : 
To the new moon she is singing 

"Bring mv loved one back to me !" 



"Both my parents have relented. 
And their cruel deed repented, 
And to-day they both consented 

My loved one dare come to me. 
All our fortune has departed. 
And the old folks broken -hearted- 
At these words I cried and started 

"Charlie, I have come for thee!' 



No more words were spoke at meeting, 
For our true hearts, wildl}^ beating, 
Smothered ev'ry tender greeting, 

While I held her close to me. 
And the stars in Heaven shining, 
vSmiled to see our arms entwining ; 
There shall be no more repining — 

Charlie, I have come for thee ! 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 



There nia\' come sad days of sighing 
Over hopes so slovvh' dying, 
And our hearts in secret crying : 

God of merc\', pity me ! 
But should sorrow hover o'er us, 
May this bright hope go before us, 
Alwa^'s singing this sweet chorus : 

Charlie, I have come for thee I 



LITTLE INJl'N DICK. 



Little Injun Dick 

Was up to ev'ry trick. 
Tho' he was but a dozen 3'ears old; 

In summer he run bare. 

Except his head of hair, 
A breech cloth added when the nights got cold. 

His daddy was a chief. 

Also a horse thief. 
And he loved whisk}' better than his kid; 

He had the biggest maw 

For rum you ever saw. 
And man}' a quart into it slid. 

Little Injun Dick 

Found a d\'naniite stick 
Some prospector had lost in the wood; 

And, thinking it sweet meat, 

He began at once to eat. 
And said, "White man's sausage welly good." 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 13 



Then home he ran with glee 

To his father's teepee, 
And found the old man drunk as a lord; 

He had just whipped his squaw 

For having too miich jaw 
And trying to get in the last word. 

When little Dick came in 

He was cussing like sin, 
And the moment he set eyes on his kid, 

He nifide a wicked kick 

At poor little Dick — 
'Twas the very last thing that he did. 

'Twas wonderful to see 
The end of that teepee, 

The dust, smoke, legs, thunder and roar; 
There were entrails and hair. 
And ham-strings in the air. 

And it rained meat for two davs or more. 



SUPERSTITION 



Men know but little of nature. 
Or the grass on which they have trod. 
And all that, of which they know nothing, 
The}^ worship and call it their god. 



SOXaS OF THE DESERT. 



THE COW BOY'vS WIFE. 



Sweet little Maverick, go to sleep, 

Bossie cow's bell is ringing ; 
The moon o'er the nionntain soon will peep, 

The birds have all quit singing ; 
Sleep while 3'our papa is riding 

Out where the cougar is hiding, 
And bab}' is well in the home corral, 

While the sandman sleep is bringing. 

Papa is bringing the cattle home, 

Out on the mesa they're bawling ; 
Supper is waiting for him to come — 

Loudly the coyote is calling. 
I*apa is mamma's brave hero. 

Broad is his beaded sombrero, 
And we need not fear the bellowing vSteer, 

Nor accidents befalling. 

vSleep has lassoed my baby at last, 

Sweeth' he smiles in his dreaming ; 
Tangled in slumber's lariat favSt — 

Hears not the catamount screaming. 
'Bove the crag's peak over yonder 

Hang storm-clouds charged with thunder, 
I hear the deep roar as it echoes o'er 

The mesa, where moonlight is streaming. 



S CXy GS OF THE DESERT. 15 



Far up the crag where the moonbeams fall, 

Through the window I'm seeing 
Two pumas fierce through the moonlight crawl, 

After the antelope fleeing. 
SoftU' the night winds are blowing, 

Louder the thunder peals growing. 
Sleep, baby, sleep, while the storm-clouds creep. 

The midnight storm decreeing. 

Hark ! in the distance the cattle bawl, 

I hear the cow boys yelling ; 
And papa's voice rings above them all — 

]\Iy lonely heart is sw^elling. 
Sometimes I sigh for the city, 

Where friends think of me in pity. 
But I love the vSteer and the w41d life here, 

And my heart with jo}- is welling. 



FORETHOUGHT. 



'Will 3-ou love me when I'm old?". 

Said the whisky to the man ; 
'You'll be better then, I'm told, 

And I'll love you all I can." 
'Will you love me when I'm old ? 

When there's wrinkles on my brow ?' 
'Then I may be turned to mould, 

So I'd better drink you now." 



1 6 S()X(7S OF THE DESERT. 



IT IS EASY TO TALK. 



It is easy to talk of your virtue 

When 3'ou have grown old and gra}-, 
When your blood is cold and 3-our heart is old, 

And passion has faded away; 
But the 3^oung man may fall to temptation 

The maiden act indiscreet, 
For the sins of \-outh are really, in truth, 

A something awfulh' sweet. 

To tell how to get wealthy is eas}', 

When 3'our fortune is already made; 
But the man in the \-oke will think it no joke 

To make millions b}- his trade. 
For the great world is alwa3'S changing, 

Aad chances are not the same. 
And the hog in most men is as great as then, 

And the shrewd have blocked ev'ry game. 

It is easv to talk of wisdom, 

If 3'ou yourself have been schooled; 
But the factory child who works all the while, 

B3' just such as 3'ou are fooled; 
For 3'ou lie to them, and deceive them, 

And tell them God has made 
A particular few with nothing to do. 

While millions must work at their trade. 



SOXGS Ol- THE DESERT. 



It ivS eas}' to talk of religion, 

And speak of the niercievS of God, 
While you hold in \'our hand the fat of the land, 

Accumulated b}- fraud; 
But the poor man, in rags and tatters, 

With his children cr^'ing for bread. 
Knows ver}' well there could be no worse hell 

Fall over his poor wear}' head. 



THUNDER vSTORM ON THE ROCKIES. 



The dark clouds hang o'er the mountains; 

The crags, again and again, 
Seem to stab the storm clouds bosom, 

And make it roar with pain ; 
The lightning wickedly flashing. 

Illuminating the sk}'. 
Seems like a terrible warning — 

The storm will conquer or die. 

And midst the roar and the flashing 

'Round the rugged crag's high head, 
The monstrous mountains tremble 

Like giants filled wath dread; 
And the lurid streaks of lightning 

Darting athwart the cloud, 
And thunderbolts loud jolting 

Behind the storm -crCvSt proud. 



1 8 SOXC;S OF THE DESERT. 



The heavens are filled with grandeur, 

And the thunder's mighty roar, 
Seems like a voice Almighty 

And shouting from shore to shore; 
And the fog banks down the canyon. 

Afloat like rivers of love, 
Are drifting to the storm clouds, 

Like down from a snow-white dove. 

And from the valley beholding 

The grandeur of nature's might, 
I'm standing in awe and transport 

At such a majestic sight; 
And I hear the great clouds roaring 

Like demons in great pain, 
And the whirlwinds in the valle}- 

Go dancing before the rain. 

And the withered vegetation 

Takes on fresh hope, I think. 
And to the storm-god of nature. 

Holds out its hands for a drink. 
But the storm clouds are receding. 

They seldom cross the plain, 
And down in the vSun-dried valley 

The flowers still crv for rain. 



SOXCrS OF THE DESERT. 19 



SONG OF THE BURRO. 



I am the emblem of patience and hope, 
The angel of the great Pacific slope; 
Though not embellished with aesthetic grace, 
I have a ver}^ remarkable face — 
I'm a burro. 

Some men call me the mountain canary, 
And others call me the can^'on fairy, 
But instead of feathers I am hairy, 
And cannot warble so light and air}' — 
I'm a burro. 

Old poets love to sing of fairy land, 
Where a little wrinkled woman with a wand, 
Can order half the universe to stand; 
But when you want a fair}- thats got the sand, 
Take a burro. 

Take me, for instance, with ni}' sweet brown eyes. 
Where 3-ou see reflected the summer skies; 
Where hope and patience never, never dies; 
But I sometimes give the bo3-s a surprise, 
'Cause I'm a burro. 

When they mount me in groups of three or four, 
All crowded until I will hold no more, 
From head to tail, as I said before, 
I do sometimes scatter them on the floor — 
The rights of a burro. 



S(hyGS OF THE DESERT. 



vSometimes big men will sit astraddle 
Of my back, without blanket or saddle, 
And then make me get up and skedaddle, 
With the aid of stirrups or paddle — 
Poor burro. 

In the mountains rich minerals are found. 
Where onh" a burro can tramp the ground, 
And, poor little cuss, he is loaded down 
With rich silver quartz and started for town — 
Poor burro. 

Then he is beaten and driven along 
W^ith the sharp goad-stick or raw-hide thong; 
Given no time to indulge in a song, 
But he often shrieks in a voice so strong — 
\\)ice of a burro. 

Waw'-haw^! waw-hee! 3aw-waw^ haw-he-ee-ee! 
That is the old song 3'ou will hear from me, 
Awa\' up in the mountain air so free: 
Waw-hee I that's me with song so free, waw-hee! 
I'm a burro. 

I am the emblem of patience and hope. 
The angel of the great Pacific slope; 
I'm controlled by neither preacher nor pope; 
If you tie me up I will chew the rope — 
I'm a burro. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



THE MISER OF LOST CANYON. 



It was night and the moon lit np the mountain, 
And the stars like diamonds glittered in the sk}- ; 
Down in the shadows by the bubbling fountain 
The poor old prospector was going to die. 
For long years, without a single companion, 
Old Eagle-Eyed Abner had hunted for gold ; 
Over the mountain trail and lonely canyon, 
Through the heat of Summer and Winter's cold, 
The old man had wasted his youth and manhood. 
Searching for the nuggets of Indian lore ; 
Knowing no home but a bed in the wild wood, 
Under the cedars on the moss-covered floor. 

Seventy years had passed to oblivion, 
And the poor old prospector was bent and gray ; 
He had asked himself why he should go living on, 
But he found his bonanza that very same day ! 
Under the granite rock up in Lost Canyon 
He had found it at last — it was gold, gold, gold ! 
And now. far away from friend and companion. 
Danced with delight at what his eyes did behold. 
Then down on the ground he sat all a-tremble ; 
Some one might hear him and be led to the spot ! 
His feelings no longer he could dissemble — 
He was now a miser in every thought. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



Carefulh' he hid all trace of his treasure, 
Covering it up with the dead leaves and moss, 
Never devising any means or measure 
To extract the gold from the granite and dross. 
He was rich now — this was all he required. 
At last his efforts had been crowned with success ; 
All love, and mercy, and kindness expired. 
And he even now loved his poor self much less. 
A week went b}-, and the old man still lingered. 
Eating nothing, but drinking at the fountain ; 
While the samples from his gold rock he fingered. 
And watched the sun rise and set on the mountain. 

Weaker and still weaker now the old man grew, 
And at last could only crawl down for a drink ; 
But he kept his golden rock alwa^'s in view. 
And seldom or never of grim death did think. 
And now it is night on the moon-lit mountain. 
And the stars like diamonds glitter overhead ; 
And the darksome shadows down at the fountain 
Are hiding the face of the miserable dead. 

Oh, the miserable death of the mountain miser! 
Now h'ing so stiff b}- the side of his gold ; 
Still grasping his samples, but now no wiser 
Than the rocks beside him in the shadows cold. 
And the moon ascending shines down the canyon, 
And melts the shadows from the face of the dead — 
Died as he lived, without friend or companion. 
Thinking of his gold until the last breath fled. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 23 



IF CHRIvST WERE HERE. 



If I told you of a Savior 

In a lowly stable born, 
Could I tell by your behavior 

That you gave the least concern 
To his welfare or his mission ? 

If his parents were both poor, 
Would you bow in meek submission 

Just outside the stable door? 

Now, if this was in the city, 

And the parents had no cash, 
Would you mingle, with your pity, 

Contempt for such lowly trash ? 
Would you not laugh in derision 

At the idea of a God 
INIeeting with such poor provision, 

In a world where prophets trod? 

Would you take them into your house ? 

Saying beggars, welcome here! 
No; you'd cry, Off to the poor house! 

There's the pauper's proper sphere. 
Likewise, if you owned the stable 

Where the unknown Jesus lay. 
You'd collect some rent, if able; 

Or would drive them all away. 



24 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



You can boast of loving Jesus, 

Knowing that He reigns above; 
If He came as poor as Laz'rus, 

To the winds would fly 3-our love. 
To the police 3'Ou'd be flying, 

With an angry, hurried tread; 
In the chain gang Christ be t^'ing, 

If He dared to ask for bread. 

Even in the gilded temple, 

Christ, in rags, would dare not pray 
There's no seat for one so simple 

'Mongst the Christians of to-day. 
Christ the mighty, up in glory, 

Having blessings to bestow, 
Reads like quite another story. 

Than a beggar down below. 

Do you think God 3^ou're deceiving? 

Do you think that Christ is blind ? 
Do you think this make-believing 

Teaches Christ that you are kind ? 
Does not Christ know ev'r}- beggar 

That comes knocking at 3'our door? 
Would the God who guarded Hagar 

Overlook the worth 3' poor? 

God's fair earth 3-0U go on fencing. 
To the best you la\'^ a claim, 

And 3'our vile laws you're dispensing, 
To the lyord Almighty's shame. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 25 



For, on earth, Christ's greatest mission 
Was God's justice to declare; 

Do 3^ou think 3'ou have permission 
To rob poor men of their share? 

Do \ou think the loving Savior 

Has not wisely laid his plan? 
Does He not see our behavior 

vShown towards our fellow man? 
In the beggar 3'ou receive Him; 

In the prison He is too; 
If you truly then believe Him, 

All are Christ's who come to vou. 



vSILVER THREADS. 



I love these old gray heads 

With hair of silver gray ; 
Their tangled silver threads, 

Bleached like the meadow hay 
They bring to me a face 

Out of the shadows deep, 
And loving lines I trace, 

Like those of one asleep 
Far away on the hill 

Where m\- dead lov'd ones lie, 
And where I hope I will 

Be buried when I die. 



26 S0X(7S OF THE DESERT. 



Gray hair, like faded moss. 

Draping the wrinkled brow, 
Purified from all dross — 

No bright, ga}' colors now. 
Shroud for the buried past ; 

A rose of death for age ; 
A flag of truce at last ; 

Of life's book the last page. 
Dear gray hair, moist with tears 

Of children, whose small hands 
Cling to it in their fears, 

And hold the silver strands. 

( xra}- hair, you touch my heart, 

And cause ni}' soul to chide ; 
Twixt life and death you part, 

Where death and life divide. 
But 3'et, when out of place. 

Or in the butter hid. 
You bring the same disgrace 

As hair from off a "kid." 
If baked within the bread, 

And swallowed b}' mistake. 
We honor not the head 

Of she who did it bake. 

Ora}' hair, like ro3'al crown. 
You have your place to shine, 

But, please do not fall down 
Into this soup of mine. 

I love you on the head 

Where vou do flourish thin. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 27 



But, on my buttered bread, 
I hate you worse than sin. 

vShroud of the buried past, 
You honor any head, 

But don't 3-ou get baked fast 
In g-obs of sour bread. 



THE LOvST TROOPERS. 



On the plains of Arizona, 
O'er the parch' d and burning sands, 
vSlowly rode the squad of troopers, 
Fighting only thirst's demands. 
Da3^s and days they saw no water, 
And their old guide had been lost. 
For the sand-hills had been shifting, 
In the winds their atoms toss'd. 

Now they rode on searching water, 

Horses, riders, almost dead ; 

Tongues were parched and half protruding, 

And their eyes were crimson red. 

Some are falling to the rearward, 

Half concluding there to die, 

But their captain cheers them onward, 

And once more the brave men try. 



28 SONG'S OF THE DESERT. 



Softly night is falling on them, 
And the moon, so full and round, 
SlowU' rises in the Heavens, 
Casts long shadows on the ground. 
And they hear the water murmur 
In imagination's dream, 
And they often mistake shadows 
In the distance for a stream. 

"Water! water!" cries each trooper, 
Goaded on by thirst's keen smart ; 
'Tis the cr}' of delirium, 
'Tis a whisper in each heart ; 
For the}- know that in the morning, 
When the sun shall rise again, 
It will add more to their terror. 
Shining down upon the plain. 

But, joy ! at early morning 
They all hear a small bird sing, 
And the old guide then assures them 
They are nearing some cool spring. 
"God be praised !" they see its glimmer, 
And the early-rising sun 
Is reflected on the water — 
Horse and trooper try to run. 

' 'W^ater ! water !" hearts are shouting. 
But the voice of all is still, 
For their tongues are parched and swollen, 
And they cannot speak until 



soyas OF the desert. 29 



They have plunged into the water — 
Blessed water ! clear and deep ;" 
And they drink it in so thankful, 
Hearts so glad — for joy they weep. 

Ah, that water — poison water ! 
From the copper, under ground, 
It is charged with fatal poison. 
' 'See the dead coyotes around ! 
They have drank this fatal water. 
Then have fallen here and died ! 
We shall soon now all be like them !" 
Cried the terror-stricken guide. 

Long the fate of these brave troopers 
Was a myst'ry at the post. 
But each year a scouting part}' 
Searched the desert for the lost. 
And, at last, two old prospectors 
This deceptive water found. 
And were cautioned not to drink it, 
Seeing dead men on the ground. 

Horses, troopers, lying bleaching, 

Faces upturned to the sun, 

Their sad fate, by pencil written. 

Fluttered in the hand of one : 

"Take this message, who shall find us, 

To my mother far-awa^'. 

Ah, please God, she may have died ere 

She shall hear of this sad day. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



"Touch you not this fatal water, 
For by God it is accurs'd ; 
It has death within its bubbles, 
Oh, be tempted not by thirst. 
My companions all have perished ; 
I can see them where the\' lay ; 
And I'll be among their number 
Ere the closinsr of the dav." 



Moral. 

There's a desert called "Ambition," 
Where men struggle hard for gain ; 
Where the barren, parch 'd condition 
Shows that mercy cannot reign : 
Where a pool of gold is standing. 
So inviting to our thirst, 
And our avarice demanding 
More and more, until we burst. 

All around this pool are lying 
Bodies rotting in the sun, 
And among them are the dying, 
Who a poisoned drink have won ; 
For the water, impregnated 
With that poison — "Love of Gold," 
Makes the drinker, dissipated, 
Die of agonies untold. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



vSMOTHERED THOUGHTvS. 



I have thoughts so strange and knowing 

In my heart, 
And their numbers keep on growing — 

Can't depart. 
Tho' the cage is never stout, 
Still these thought-birds come not out, 
For there's prejudice about. 
And there's superstition showing 

Her long dart. 

Could I but send these birds adrift, 

Like the lark, 
The}' might create a little rift 

In the dark; 
But grim prejudice would fall 
On each thought-bird, and they'd all 
Become smothered in the brawl, 
And the world reject the gift 

From the start. 

So I'll cage these thoughts securely, 

And I'll try 
To think thoughts like the purel}-; 

Even I 
Will not offend the owls. 
Who look on me with scowds, 
And stir up savage growls 
From all those who think so surely 

That I lie. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



And I'll tr}-, with coming age, 

That which smothers 

These thought-birds in their cage, 

And no others 
Of these thought-birds be getting, 
And keep them there a fretting. 
Behind this cruel netting, 

Like their brothers. 

Oh, this world is but a cage 

To the mind 
That would step be\'ond the age. 

And mankind, 
In a blinded, struggling crowd. 
Where the humble and the proud. 
Are crying, long and loud, 

Oet behind! 

Trust the preachers, politicians. 

False and true. 
And let these modern magicians 

Think for 3-ou: 
Let them always take the lead. 
Let them gauge 3'our time and speed, 
Follow blindly, then, indeed. 

You will do. 

If they sa}" the world is flat. 

Say so, too. 
Galileo found out that — 

So will vou. 



.S7).Vc;.S" OF THE DESERT. 33 



If they sa}-, all men who doubt 
Do not know what they're about, 
Sa3' so, too. If not right out, 
Sav "uni — hoo." 



THE CLIFF DWELLERS. 



In the giant sand rock can3-on 

Where the stunted cedars grow, 
And the sunshine in abandon 

Parches dry the earth below ; 
Far beyond the Mount La Plata, 

In the lower Mancos pass, 
Where the ancient Soangetaha 

Lov'd the dusky mountain lass. 

From the upper snow clad Mesas, 

When the snows begin to thaw, 
There's a thousand Minnehahas 

Pouring down the rocky draw ; 
Rushing off to meet the river, 

B}' some subtle power drawn. 
Where the water flows forever 

Roughly down the swift San Juan. 

Here are traces of a nation, 
Dead to mem'ry long ago ; 

But from lofty elevation, 

Where the stunted cedars grow, 



34 .SY^.VC^.V OF THE DESERT. 



There are castles, long since passing 

Into ruin, and the dust 
On the rocky floors amassing, 

Slowh- ages did adjust. 

No one knows their ancient story, 

And the silence reigning here. 
Whispers nothing of their glor}-. 

Nothing of their hopes or fear ; 
But some bones of human creatures. 

Yellow with their age and rust. 
Skull-bones showing human features. 

Have been found among the dust. 

Here we know in long dead ages 

Hearts did ache and souls did love, 
Here the youths and older sages 

Watched fair Luna shine above. 
Here the mother nursed her baby, 

Hugged it to her dusky breast. 
Sang some w^oodland ditty, ma3'be. 

Until it had sank to rest. 

Now the silence, deep and painful. 

Fills your soul with dreadful awe, 
And the raven's voice disdainful 

Rasps your ear with his shrill "caw^ 
Standing where this nation perished, 

Knowing nothing of their strife — 
For the secrets their hearts cherished 

Pass'd away with their strange life. 



V is 



SO.yCr'S OF THE DESERT. 35 



How 3'our soul is filled with wonder, 

And you wish you could be told 
How long since the crash of thunder 

Shook their bodies into mould. 
Ah, perhaps 'twas long ere INIoses 

Brought the plagues to Pharoah's land, 
This dead valley bloomed like roses, 

Tilled by a strange human hand. 

Oh, I never dreamed in childhood. 

In ni}' home so far awa}'. 
There would come a time when I would 

Stand where ages of decay 
IVIelts the castles of a nation. 

Crumbles into mouldering dust, 
And find in the ruination 

Crumbling skulls of 3'ellow dUvSt. 

This poor skull between my fingers, 

Cimmerian darkness now 
In each eyeless socket lingers — 

All is silence, and the brow. 
Once filled with life's strange nn'stery. 

Now for ages in repose — 
How I long to know the hist'ry 

None but the Almightv knows. 



36 SOXaS OF THE DESERT. 



YOU AND I TOGETHER. 



Down life's curious river we float, 

You and I together; 
Each passenger in his little boat, 

You and I together; 
In some places the channel is deep. 
With plenty of room for each other's sweep; 
While in other places great rocks sleep, 
"^And their rough heads near the surface peep. 

And stormy is the weather. 

Shall we then crowd our neighbor ashore? 

You and I together; 
Wrecking his boat and breaking his oar? 

You and I together; 
Shall we crowed him upon the rough rocks, 
Where the human boat receives great shocks, 
And the rushing waves his struggle mocks. 
And famine grim the whole year stalks. 

Searching for our brother? 

Are we brothers, or are we not? 

You and I together; 
Should we be sharing each other's lot? 

You and I together; 
Shall we assist when storm clouds fall. 
And darkness settles down like a pall ? 
Or run away when our neighbors call — 
Each one for himself and the devil for all ; 

Is this vour motto, brother? 



SOjVGS of the desert. 37 



Oh, why not lash together each boat? 

You and I together; 
Out in the current where all can float ? 

You and I together; 
Oh, why not lend an oar, or a sail, 
To our poor brother about to fail ? 
Why stop our ears to his bitter wail. 
And let him sink in our own ship's trail ! 

Are we so heartless, brother? 

(ireat God, in mercy pit}' our greed ! 

You and I together; 
And help us heal the hearts that bleed, 

You and I together; 
Let us tow our weak brother along 
Down the stream, and cheer him with song, 
Pull his frail boat from out among 
The cruel rocks, where the fierce sharks throng 

And try to eat our brother. 

Oh, life is only a little trip! 

You and I together; 
And the same God made each little ship. 

You and I together; 
And He launched us all upon this stream. 
And made our sails of the bright sunbeam; 
And there is room for all, but it seems 
We are all too full of greedy schemes. 

And try to sink our brother. 



38 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



LEFT BEHIND. 



"Go back," he said to the mongrel cur, 
When he made an attempt to follow ; 
And the dog laid down by the cabin door 
And licked hispaWvS, while his heart was sore, 
And watched his master passing o'er 
The desert sands, hot and mellow. 

This happened out on the West frontier, 
On the desert of Colorado. 
The man was a man wdthout love or fear, 
Who had seen, perhaps, his fiftieth year. 
Whose eyes ne'er shed a pit3'ing tear — 
He'd the heart of a desperado. 

His mission now was to homestead land 
On the desert so dr}- and dreary. 
His cabin he built with his ow^n strong hand, 
A rough board shed on the desert sand. 
And water he brought from the river Grand, 
And he lived with his dog quite cheery. 

Now he is going to the far-off town 
On his broncho so lean and bon}^ ; 
And he cast behind one angr}- frown 
At the cringing dog, now lying down. 
Then cantered awa}' towards the town 
On his lean and sad-eyed pon}'. 



SONC/S OF THE DESERT. 39 



A week pass'd by. The dog still lay 
Where his cruel master had left him ; 
Looking and longing, daj- after day, 
Down the trail where his master rode away. 
Over the dry sand parched and gray, 
And of his presence bereft him. 

Ah, do you think, had the poor dog known 
How his master in town was drinking — 
Would he have lain so patientl}' down, 
With all that painful silence around, 
D3'ing of thirst, and not of a wound ? — 
'Twould have been all the same, I'm thinking. 

"To-morrow he'll come," the dog would say, 

'T will wait until to-morrow." 

The night passed on. The morning graj- 

Ushered in one more drear}- da}'. 

And the poor dog could not go away. 

But waited, and waited in sorrow. 

Is there a god to tradition known 
IMore faithful to obedience proving? 
D3'ing of hunger, and all alone ; 
D3'ing without a tear or a groan ; 
Greater faith b}- man was ne\'er shown ; 
The equal of gods in loving. 

"To-morrow he'll come," the dog did sigh. 

As darkness obscured the view ; 

But in the night grim death stalked by, 



40 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



And stilled his heart, and glazed each eye. 
A martyr to love that dog did die — 
Could a god be more faithful and true ? 

His life went out on the desert breath — 
Oh, where did his spirit go ? 
Could there die a man with stronger faith ? 
And is there not, above or beneath, 
Some record kept of this noble death ? 
And a future reward also ? 

Greater love than this never was known, 
A love that is strong in death's sorrow. 
D\ing for love's sake, without a moan, 
For the life he loved giving his own — 
Will this for his master's sins atone 
In death's mysterious to-morrow? 

When the wretched man came back at last 
He found the poor dog laying 
Beside the door, with his eyes closed fast ; 
Heart stilled by that silent hand which pass'c 
And the wretched man stood there aghast. 
Too guilty even for pra^-ing. 

Out of all this mystery, I know. 

We are promised a salvation. 

But we are so thoughtless here below, 

So painfully cruel as we go 

Through this wicked world, to and fro, 

Filling it with damnation. 



SO\GS OJ' THE DESERT. 41 



LITTLE MAVERICK. 



It was born in bleak November, 
When the snow began to fly; 

'Twas a meek -eyed, little bnll calf, 
With the saddest, dreary cry; 

And 'twould wag it's tail at strangers 
While they sauntered slowly by. 

But the weather growing colder 
Made the little critter jump. 

And the hair stood out like bristles 
All over its little rump; 

But, in milking its old mother, 
It did not forget to bump. 

But the louse came in mid -winter 
To prospect upon that calf; 

Chewed the hair off in great patches, 
In a way to make you laugh; 

vSoon his tail would hardly wiggle, 
While his daily milk he'd quaff. 

In the early, balmy springtime 
When the shadflies filled the air. 

All unbranded and unchristened, 
And without a doctor there. 

This poor calf, so lean and lousy. 
Gently climbed the golden stair. 



42 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



Now, the question here uprises: 
Who this Maverick will own 

In the pasture fields of Eden, 
Where it's spirit now has flown? 

For it passed away unbranded. 
Climbed the golden stair alone. 

Will it find the summer ranges 
Full of cattle men have slain ? 

Waiting there to greet their butchers 
And be branded then again ? 

Will the}' brand this calf in Eden 
E're a stall it can obtain ? 



DREAMING OF HOME. 



Near the graveyard on the Mesa, 

Where the sun forever shines, 
Glist'ning on the cold, white tombstones, 

Brought from far-off marble mines ; 
There I often sit when lonel}'. 

Near the city of the dead, 
While the dreams of home and childhood 

Softly come into my head. 

Down the road so long and dust}*, 
Weary horsemen come and go ; 

Each one wears a broad sombrero. 
But there's scarcely one I know. 



SO\GS OF THE DESERT. 43 



Mexicans so dark and swarthy, 
Riding ponies lean as death, 

Cowboys dashing b}' so madly, 

Horse and man both out of breath. 

I can look across the river, 

Far be\'ond the ragged town, 
Out among the hills of 'dobe. 

Where no thing of life is found, 
But a bunch of stunted greasewood, 

Growing in the 'dobe clay. 
And small bunches of coarse salt sage, 

Faded out like sun-dried hay. 

All the earth seems parch 'd and drear\' 

No green hills to rest the eye ; 
God in Heaven ! must I linger 

In this dreary place and die.'* 
Then I dream of a fair valley 

Where Bald Eagle mountains stand. 
And where flows the Susquehanna 

Softly through that far-off land ? 

Sometimes on the mesa dreaming, 

Dreams I long and long to tell. 
Far away my heart goes yearning 

For the water in the well. 
At the dear old home of childhood, 

'INIong the everlasting hills, 
Where I used to sit in summer 

List'ning to the whip-poor-wills. 



44 .sy:>-V6".v of the desert. 



And sometimes m}- wife beside me 

Wonders wh^- 1 am so still, 
Looking o'er the lifeless desert 

Out toward the 'dobe hill ; 
And sometimes sad tears of longing 

On my lashes she espies, 
But she thinks I look too eager, 

And the sunlight hurts my eyes. 

There are many poor hearts aching 

On this dr\' Pacific slope. 
Toiling in the burning sun rays, 

Cheered alone b}' this one hope : 
That some da}- the wheel of fortune, 

In its slow, uncertain turn, 
May enable them to journey 

Back to where their poor hearts yearn. 

But each week, out on the Mesa, 

To the grave3-ard at this place, 
Slowly moves the hearse and coffin, 

Dragging out a cold, white face ; 
Some poor heart has ceased its yearning, 

And the dreams of hope have fled ; 
None but God will know the stor}- 

Of the poor, heart-broken dead. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 45 



OBLIVION. 



Deep ill a Colorado canyon — 

So the story goes — 
Two Spaniards bold, 
Prospecting for gold, 

Near where a small creek flows, 
Heard the roar of a mighty storm above. 

And the waters rushing. 
And the mine was filled. 
The miners killed. 

By the great flushing. 

Great rocks rolled and filled up the canyon, 

And the prospect hole 
Was hidden from sight, 
In the storm's great might. 

Now the waters roll 
And tumble forever above them , 

And none but Cxod knows 
Each horrified face, 
In this hiding place, 

Where they now repose. 

And the coyotes howling above them, 

And the eagle's call, 
And the ravens, high 
In the azure sky. 

While the couoars crawl 



46 SOXGS or THE DESERT. 



Over the rocks which conceal this tomb 

Where the miners fell. 
Oblivion deep — 
Oblivious sleep ! 

None their stor}- tell. 

And the howling winds of winter, 

And falling snow; 
Then comes balni}' spring, 
The summer birds sing — 

They all come and go: 
But under the rocks they are lying, 

Those men so clever; 
Oblivion deep, 
Oblivious sleep — 

Sleep on forever ! 

But how much better will be my fate ? 
Even tho' my tomb 
Is bathed with tears 
Of loved ones, for years. 
There still is gloom; 
And, tho' my story is known to men. 
How long will it be 
Until none but God 
Knows where the sod 
Covers up poor me? 

Oblivion ! 'tis only to be 
Forgotten by all. 
Whether low or deep 
The place where we sleep — 
Whether great or small — 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 47 



Soon, vSoon will this great oblivion 

All trace dissever : 
Sleep on, thou sleeper! 
The shadows grow deeper ; 

Sleep on forever ! 



O-NA-WEE-TA. 



Note. — Many years ago the' e was a battle fought in Arizona 
between United States troops and a band of Indian cattle thieves, 
in which many poor soldiers were killed. One poor fellow was 
wounded very badly, but he clung to his horse, and was carried 
many miles from the place before he fell from his saddle. He 
landed in a dense thicket of manzanita brush, where he was found 
by an Indian maiden, who nursed him, and even shot and wounded 
her old father in defense of the poor fellow. The young couple 
were afterwards married, and also forgiven by the fierce old warrior. 



Down where the water flows, 

Soft music purling, 
Smoke from the teepee rose, 

In the zeph3'rs whirling; 
Songs of the summer birds 

In the manzanita. 
Mingle with the gentle words 

Of O-na-wee-ta. 



Pride of the w^arrior's eye, 
Fierce old Wah-hee-tah, 

Eyes like the midnight sky, 
vSweet O-na-wee-ta : 



48 SOJVGS OF THE DESERT. 



Singing like a summer bird 

In the manzanita, 
Sweeter voice was never heard 

Than O-na-wee-ta's. 

Out in the chaparral 

Lay a wounded soldier; 
Found at last where he fell 

By a fair beholder : 
Hunting for the timid hare 

In the manzanita, 
vShe found the soldier there — 

Sweet O-na-wee-ta. 

Kindly she dressed his sores, 

Took sweet broth to him, 
In his wounds some ointment pours, 

Gentl}' did woo him. 
Father followed her one day — 

Fierce old Wah-hee-tah — 
Found where the soldier la}- 

In the manzanita. 

Fiercely he draws his knife, 

E3'es shine with murder; 
Daughter cries, "Spare his life ! " 

But he never heard her : 
Soon then a pistol flash 'd 

In the manzanita, 
Through his arm a bullet crash' d — 

Brave ()-na-wee-ta ! 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 49 



' ' Touch not the sick pale-face ! 

I stand above him ; 
Tho' he 's not of my race, 

Father, I love him ! 
'Twas the Great Spirit led me 

To the manzanita, 
And soon he'll wedded be 

To his 0-na-\vee-ta. ' ' 

Loudly the warrior curs' d, 

Fierce old Wah-hee-tah ; 
For revenge his heart did thirst 

On O-na-wee-ta; 
But soon he did relent, 

Fierce old Wah-hee-tah: 
There's a marriage in the tent — 

Happ}' O-na-wee-ta ! 



MV CHURCH. 



The religion I want is mercy. 
Love, charity, and justice for all ; 
A church that will welcome the lowly, 
And stoop to pick up those who fall. 
But a faith that asks God for mercy, 
In a world where laboring men call 
In vain for a share of God's blessings, 
For shame ! 'Tis no religion at all. 



50 SOA'GS OF THE DESERT. 



ALONE BY THE RIVER. 



The day was so drear}- and sober, 

The leaves had turned yellow and sere, 

It was in melancholy October, 

The saddest, sad month of the year — 
The lonesomest month of the year : 

Death comes to nature to disrobe her, 
To strip her boughs naked and bare, 

And the trees stand solemn and sober. 
Like images standing in prayer. 

In silence I walk by the river. 

That swift flowing river — the Grand, 

Where the sun on the wavelets shiver. 
As they tumble ashore on the sand — 
Ashore on the gold-bearing sand : 

And the glint of the sunbeams quiver 
On the pebbles reflecting their ra\-s, 

But m3' thoughts are ever and ever 
Flowing back to my childhood days. 

Oh, why am I here by this river — 
Here walking and dreaming alone ? 

And why do I tremble and shiver, 
And my willing exile bemoan — 
My melancholy exile bemoan ? 

Oh, why do these yellow leaves falling 
From the cotton wood trees on the shore, 

Remind me of childhood friends calling, 
But drowned b}- the river's deep roar? 



SOXCS OF THE DESERT. 51 



Why can I not search for bright pebbkvS 
As I walk on the beach of the Grand? 

And why are my thoughts such great rebels ? 
Going back to that far-off land- 
That dear, old, cherished far-off land. 

These shadows on the swift river dancing. 
Are they the ghosts of my lov'd ones dead? 

For something my heart is entrancing, 
And this loneliness fills me with dread. 



Right here on this sand where I'm walking 
The Indians in past j^ears have trod ; 

They have listened to the Grand river talking, 
For the voice of the water w^as God — 
The murmuring water was God : 

While out on the Mesa the jaguar 
And co3'ote for venison strove. 

And the beautiful, blood-thirsty cougar 
Looked down from the crag's peak above. 



But now, in this month of October, 

There's silence and sadness around. 
And the trees, standing silent and sober. 

Are dropping their leaves on the ground — 

The alkali-salt-covered ground : 
And the Indians have all cross'dthe river, 

And gave to the white man their land. 
And the water has w^ash'd out forever 

Their tracks from the soft yielding sand. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



And those of that tribe now still living- 
May be somewhere walking alone : 

And, instead of heartfelt thanksgiving, 
Their drear}', forced exile bemoan — 
Their long, compelled exile bemoan : 

And the ghosts of the men fierce and sober 
Who fought by the side of Ouray, 

]\Iay have come, like the frosts of October, 
To carry some new life away. 

Thus dreaming I walk by the river, 

The canyon -walled river — the Grand, 
And I wonder, so sadly, if ever 

I'll walk in that far-off, dear land? 

'Mongst the hills of that far-off land : 
And I gaze in the water, so sober. 

While I dig with my heel in the sand, 
And I wonder if ever October 

Was so sad in that far-off land. 



CASTING BREAD. 



Cast your bread upon the hungry, 

Not on water, as 'tis said, 
And they'll return to you quite often- 

Those that hunger, not the bread. 
Bread that's cast upon the water 

Never will return again ; 
For it soon dissolves to batter, 

Or in sour wads remain. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 53 



A SLIGHT MISTAKE. 



On the battle field of Gettysburg a wounded soldier lay; 

A cannon ball had come along and torn his leg awa}-. 

A scarred old veteran came that way, cheering himself with 

songs, 
A genuine old soldier bo}' whose hair stood out in prongs. 
"Oh carry me from this dreadful place!" the wounded 

soldier moaned; 
The smoky comrade picked him up and lazily he groaned. 
With the wounded soldier on his back he held him by each 

hand. 
And, ev'ry step, the poor man's blood stream'd down and 

stained the sand. 

"Where are you hurt?" the comrade ask'd the wounded 

man aloft. 
"A cannon ball," he made reply, "has torn ni}' right leg 

off." 
' ' An' so it is your laig, comrade, ' ' the soldier soothing said. 
And just then came a cannon ball and took also the head. 
But the wounded soldier scarceh' kicked, so sudden was 

the blow; 
And, death thus coming like a flash, his comrade did not 

know, 
But went jogging from the battle field, toting his load 

along; 
Never thinking of blood or death, but humming low a 

song. 



54 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



But a captain met him by and by, who closely scanned his 

load ; 
And when he saw the headless trunk, said, " Drop it in 

the road ! 
This man is dead as dead can be — his head is shot clean 

off!" 
The comrade dropped his heavy load and gave an angr}^ 

cough . 
"Wal, dod durn him, when I picked him up, as sure as 

ni}- name's Waig, 
He told me he was wounded bad, but said it was his leg ! 



BEDTIME. 



Bedtime, and I lay me down to sleep, 

While the moon shines brightl}^ overhead; 

And the shadows lengthen out and creep 
In through the window upon ni}- bed; 

But before I sleep I take a peep ' 

Into the past, where my years have fled. 

I see a dark room with rafters bare. 

And three small beds in the shadows deep; 

And I know the little sleepers there, 
So ver}^ weary and fast asleep. 

And over the hill the whip-poor-wdll 

Echoes the chirp of the little "knee-deep." 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 



Those happy nights of the long ago ! 

When three little brothers laj' awake, 
Counting the rain drops falling slow, 

Laughing loud at each other's mistake; 
And the cricket's call in the chimne}' wall 

Such doleful music all night does make. 

Bedtime— happiest hour of all 

To the wear}- man going to rest. 
With a conscience clear to rest I fall, 

So like a child on its mother's breast; 
And while I sleep, the long shadows creep 

Over ni}^ face from the moon-lit west. 

Bedtime — oh ! when the last night shall come, 
And the shadows dark around me fall, 

And the gloom of death hangs o'er ni}' home, 
And I faintly hear my loved ones call; 

Oh ! may I dream, and death but seem 
A child-like slumber for us all. 



THERE IS NO FRIENDSHIP. 



There is no such thing as friendship. 
I learned this truth of late ; 
To the millions we are indifferent, 
While a few we love — and hate. 



56 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



THE CURSE OF COLORADO. 



There's a curse on Colorado, 

There's a Hell at Cripple Creek, 

Where the golden P'ldorado 

Grows more wicked ever}- week ; 

Where the virgin soil is tainted 
With the mnrder'd strikers' blood, 

And on ev'ry face is painted : 



There are man}- lone graves hidden 

In the woods, be3-ond Bull Hill, 
Where deputies have ridden. 

Who were sworn to sla^- and kill ; 
And the thunders cannot waken 

Those who sleep beneath the sod, 
But each night some life is taken 

In this place where gold is god. 

Here the lights all night are burning. 

And the game is alwa^'s on. 
And bad men to demons turning, 

Through the gold the}- lost or won ; 
Here the harlots, thieves and devils. 

Have their coarse hands stained with blood. 
And a thousand other evils 

Reign where gold alone is god. 



S0XC7S OF THE DESERT. 



One would think the elevation, 

(Ten thousand feet above the sea,) 
Would bring it in close relation 

To the God of Galilee ; 
But the sun, from its position, 

Ev'ry morning finds new blood 
Staining this pocket edition 

Of Hell, wdieregold reigns as god. 



THE ACCURvSED CITIES. 



Accursed cities! say Nature's law^s; 

Where streets vStand gaping like mighty jaws, 

And all the glittering scenes within 

Are hiding some dark and bestial sin, 

And luring strangers therein to walk, 

By rash promises and idle talk. 

Too soon those buildings become a wall, 

To drowni the groans and dying call 

Of the poor, polluted human beast. 

Who is forced on plunder there to feast; 

And w^here virtue is as little known 

As saints in hades, and the moan 

Of poverty, and hunger, and death, 

Mingle with the drunken dancer's breath. 

Accursed cities ! say honest priests. 
Who see their brothers in sinful feasts; 
For the minister who reads the signs 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 



On faces where intemperance reigns, 
Knows of the dark hell raging within 
The poor soul, drunken to drown its sin. 
And each pinched face seen on the street, 
And all the naked, shivering feet, 
And all the rags and thread-bare clothes, 
And ever\- trace of human woes, 
Speak of povert>- and sore distress 
In words which law cannot suppress. 
Even tho' the rich would wish it done. 
And imprison ev'ry pauper's son. 

Accursed cities ! the rivers say. 

Where foul sewers empty ev'r\- day, 

And the filth of millions stain the streams, 

Which were created pure as dreams. 

Accursed cities I whisper the winds. 

Coming laden with the scent of pines; 

But, when passing through the filthy towns, 

Sobbing and sighing with many frowns, 

INIillions of germs the3' carrj' awa^', 

To spread disease for many a da}-; 

And the smell of filth, and smoke, and gas, 

Are carried over the tender grass; 

And Nature shrinks from the filth}' scent, 

Saying, Accursed cities ! you need repent. 

Give me the desert, with barren sand, 
With desolation on ev'ry hand, 
With its dreaded silence, bleaching bones, 
Where the winds sigh in such mournful tones, 



SOJVGS OF THE DESERT. 59 



And all is desolation and waste, 
And even the winds of alkali taste, 
x\nd the sun shines down with fnrnace heat, 
And nowhere grows a spear to eat,-- 
Give me this, instead of wicked towns, 
Where oppression forever abounds; 
Where men feast on their neighbor's toil, 
And, in the rush and fierce turmoil, 
The poor are trampled to the ground, 
And God's mercy is but seldom found. 

Accursed cities I where congregate 

Those who by plunder make themselves great; 

The gay and gaudy aristocrat. 

The tyrant and the autocrat, 

The money-lender, rent-collector, 

Sweat-shop owner and slave-director, 

Courtesan, the gambler and thug, 

The libertine w^ith pitfalls dug; 

And all those who do not honCvSt toil, 

But live on the honey and the oil 

Of all the world's best products, and then 

Are posing as fine gentlemen. 

Accursed cities ! ruination 

Of our boasted civilization. 

And I, too — writer of these lines, 
Knowing how well hypocrisy shines; 
Knowing how the rich, by usury. 
Force the poor into penur\'; 
Knowing how the churches hide the men 



6o SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



Who rob the poor, then come back again 
And on the altar some plunder la}-; 
And kneeling before their God, do pray 
That He ma}- bless the suffering poor, 
And make their sinful souls quite pure. 
And the preachers, looking on these men, 
Accepting their gold, and knowing when 
And where they get it, as well as you, 
I sav, Oh, accursed cities ! too. 



DON'T FORGET YOUR MOTHER. 



Last week brought a pleading letter 

From a mother whom I know, 
Asking if I'd seen her Edward, 

Who had left her long ago. 
"He was in your town, they tell me, 

When the railroad strike w^as on ; 
Have you met, among the strangers, 

Edward, ni}- proud, dashing son? 

"Five long years ago he left me. 

Just because I did object 
To his going with some \'oung men 

Whom I never could respect. 
And he cursed me in his anger, 

FierceU' slammed the door behind. 
But if I could onh' see him, 

I would treat him, oh, so kind 1 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 6i 



"In my dreams I see my Edward, 

And I hear him call for me, 
And at times I dream of sitting 

With my Edward on my knee. 
If he knew how I was 3'earning 

Just to see him once again, 
He would hasten to his mother, 

And would cure this great heart pain. ' ' 

Tell me, mothers, could I tell her, 

Form the words with pen or tongue. 
That the son she loved so dearly 

For horse stealing had been hung ? 
Could I tell her that, through gambling, 

He had often killed for gain, 
That he was a drunken demon, 

Worse, far worse, than blood \' Cain ? 

All I did was simply tell her 

That her son had gone away. 
And expressed a hope that they would 

Meet again some happ}' da\'. 
I have noticed, in most cases. 

And it should be set to song. 
When a bo}' forgets his mother, 

There is alwa3\s something wrong. 

Boys may go the wide world over, 
Seeking wealth with all their might. 

If their hearts are true and loving, 
They will not forget to write ; 



62 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



But when days are spent in gambling, 
Nights in drinking and in song, 

When the bo}- forgets his mother, 

Mother knows there's something wron| 



THE OLD STONE FENCE. 



The old stone fence near the corn shed. 

Where the chipmonks hid their corn, 
W^here the wasp and wicked hornet 

With their nests the stones adorn ; 
Where the tom-cat sat to listen, 

Watching for the timid mouse : 
How his cruel e3-es would glisten 

When he turned towards the house. 

Father built the fence one Summer 

To inclose the orchard trees ; 
It was cheaper, far, than lumber, 

And would last eternities. 
And beside it grew the thistle, 

Briar-bushes, and the thorn. 
Where the Summer birds would whistle 

So merrily night and morn. 

On the fence I have been sitting 
When the bars were opened wide, 

For the cows would leave off picking, 
And no longer would abide 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



In the field, among' the bushes, 

Where the thorns and thistles grew, 

But each critter quits, and rushes 
To the gap, and gazes through. 

Longing for the grass be3"ond there, 

Growing 'mongst the orchard trees. 
There they stand all day and wonder 

Why they can't go where they please 
Exactly like the human creature, 

Ivooking at the legal wall 
Which surrounds the gifts of nature, 

Given for the use of all. 

How like cattle we are standing — 

We, the toilers, and the poor. 
By the open gap, demanding 

We shall be fenced out no more. 
But the gap is watched b}^ giants : 

Oppressors, lawyers, judges, slaves. 
Soldiers, menials, and t^'rants, 

And 'tis money buys these braves. 

And the stone wall near the corn shed 

Father built around the trees, 
Had its wasp and wicked hornet. 

And the festive bumble bees ; 
And, like law^^ers, they are lying 

For a victim near their nest ; 
Just so soon as one they're sp3dng 

There's commotion and unrest. 



64 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



i\h, how often in the bosom 

Of my trousers I have found 
Feeling so unearthly gruesome 

That, with one, great, mighty bound, 
I have bounded from the stone wall, 

Like a thief pursued b}' law, 
And the might}', awful shrill squall 

Filled the bell-cow's heart with awe. 

Thus the walls of law and bowlders 

For protection were created, 
But the careless, blind beholders 

Know not these walls are related : 
But they're both chock full of leeches. 

And scorpions, wasps, and bees. 
And they'll bite clear through 3'our breeches. 

And just prod you at their ease. 



GOD NEVER WILLED IT SO. 



A million dollar church for God, 

Damp cellars for poor labor, 
Carpets where the priests have trod, 

Cold stone floors for our neighbor. 
God has never willed it so, 

By precept or by fable ; 
When sending Jesus Christ below 

He chose for Him a stable. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



65 



THE SHEEP HERDER. 



Out upon the dreary mesa, 

On the 'dobe plains so bare, 
I first met poor Casimero, 

Herding sheep in silence there; 
Fof the upper range was buried 

Deep beneath the ice and snow. 
And the bleating sheep were hurried 

To the barren plains below. 

All day long in silence brooding. 

As he walked among the sheep, 
Watching them the plains denuding. 

Walked he dreaming, half asleep. 
He 'd not learned the art of reading. 

And his world was very small, 
And the flock he now was leading 

Was to him his world and all. 

Casimero loved a maiden, 

Senorita Corrillo, 
And his thoughts were ever laden 

With sweet dreams of IVIexico. 
And the silence helped his dreaming 

As he walked among the sheep, 
Starting at the raven's screaming, 

Like a child disturbed in sleep. 



66 SON(VS OF THE DESERT. 



One da\' o'er the plains came riding 

On a broncho's weary back, 
With a broad sombrero hiding 

Eyes like summer midnight black; 
Said he: "Is this Casimero, 

Of Chihuahua, Mexico?" 
And his eyes looked on our hero 

With a yearning love-lit glow. 

Started he, and almost fainted, 

For the accent of that voice 
To his ears was long acquainted, 

And his heart stops to rejoice. 
Wide he holds his arms, and crying: 

' ' Senorita Corrillo !" 
And into his strong arms flying 

Leaps the maid of IMexico. 



THE WISE BOY 



There's the bad boy, and the glad boy. 

And the boy with his trousers torn, 

The ready boy, the stead}^ boy. 

And the boy who is all forlorn ; 

But the boy who is bound to succeed in life, 

Wear starched shirt and stand-up collar, 

Is the boy who knows, by the flush on his nose, 

When its best to strike dad for a dollar. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 67 



THE vSTRANGER. 



What is life ? and who am I ? 

What are these strange things one sees? 
Tho' I try, and tr}', and try, 

Conscience will not rest at ease. 

All aronnd strange faiths and creeds. 

All around I hear men pra}-; 
Shaking in the wind like weeds 

On a drear}- autumn day. 

INIen are pointing overhead 

To the place where great stars shine, 
Saying it is where the dead 

Wafted are b}' laws divine. 

This world seems so ver\- cold 

That without love one would freeze; 

Yet ni3' host I ne'er behold. 
And I feel not at my ease. 

And sometimes I feel adrift 

On some mysterious sea: 
Clouds of gloom without a rift 

Seem to hover over me. 

Through this world I daily roam, 
Like a captive, tho' I 'm free; 

Feel a stranger in my home. 
Watched bv eves I cannot see. 



6s .s-^^\y;.s- of the desert. 



All the works of ages do 
Seem to tell me I am small- 

That some ruling power, too, 
Watches sternly over all. 



PLEADING EYES. 



Eyes of pale blue, meek and pleading, 

Little faces looking old. 
Little bare feet chapped and bleeding, 

Little bodies pinched with cold; 
I was startled b}^ their knocking 

Ere I opened up ni}- door, 
For I had been sitting, rocking. 

With my eyes upon the floor. 

Two wee little bo3'S were standing 

Just outside the parlor door, 
And the eldest one demanding: 

' ' Do you ever help the poor ? 
Would you like to buy some hone}' ? 

We have nice pound boxes here; 
And our mamma needs the mone^' — 

Papa is much worse this 3'ear. 

" Papa he has got consumption. 
Sits all day among the trees, 

Seldom stops to get a luncheon. 
For he works among the bees; 



.S'C:>.V6".S" OF THE DESERT. 69 



x\nd we tr}' to sell the honey — 

Little brother Tom and me, 
Criving mamma all the money, 

And it helps her much, you see. 

" We are onh- four now, mister — 

Tom and Jamie, me and Clyde; 
For we buried little sister 

In the winter, when she died." 
Looking in those little faces, 

vSeeing eyes a-pleading so, 
There I seemed to see the traces 

Of ni}' own self, years ago. 

When I vised to gather berries, 

Peddle them from door to door — 
Ah, great God ! how fast life hurries 

Burdens on the struggling poor. 
Pale blue eyes look up so pleading. 

Set in faces looking old. 
For you my poor heart is bleeding. 

For I know your life is cold. 

Oh, there's such a tender feeling 

In ni}- bosom pulls and sways, 
Meni'ry at my feet is kneeling. 

Pointing back to far-off days; 
And these little pleading faces 

Bring back thoughts of former 3''ears, 
And, in speaking, there are traces 

In my voice of pensive tears. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



NOVEMBER. 



Cold, cheerless month of November, 

When clouds are so somber and gra}-; 
The}^ bring back alwa^'S to mem'ry 

The shadows of joys pass'd awa}'. 
I vsit looking into the fire, 

While shadows dance over the floor, 
And bleak winds outside flowing higher. 

And searching the world for God's poor. 

Just hear it? Shrieking and howling. 

And threaten to break down the door. 
It seems I can hear it growling : 

"I'm after God's miserable poo-o-o-r!" 
vSee it lash the trees into furies, 

Dash the water high on the shore. 
While shrieking, howding, it hurries 

In search of God's miserable poor. 

" What have they done, these poor people!' 

The chimne3'-top asks of the wind, 
As it rushes past the church steeple, 

With dead leaves trailing behind. 
" Are you the poor people's keeper? 

If I freeze them, what is it to 3'ou?" 
And the wind's hard voice sounds deeper 

As it hurried bv with a " woo-oo-o-o !" 



SOA'CS OF THE DESEkT. yr 



"Ah, the poor people have no keeper!" 

Said the chimney-top with a sigh; 
"And justice is such a sound sleeper — 

He sleeps while the poor people die. 
And I must see the world suffer, 

And treat the affair as a joke; 
Just like the millionaire duffer — 

Stand back and do nothing but smoke." 

But the wind blew saucy as ever 

Around the chimney so mute, 
Even reaching down so clever 

And grabbing a handful of soot, 
And went on shrieking and howling 

And trying at each cottage door. 
Then off again, wickedly growling : 

"The poo-o-o-r, the miserable poo-o-o-r ! 

I sit by the fire and shiver 

When I hear the wind's cru^l voice, 
And wonder why the Good Giver 

Allows the cold wind to rejoice. 
If the rich would only remember, 

And go searching from door to door, 
Along with the winds of November, 

And temper the winds for the poor! 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



FLOWERS MY MOTHER LOVED. 



Last night upon my pillow dreaming 

Of scenes so old, 
Sweet visions of the past came streaming, 

Like the old stories told. 
One vision lingered there for hours; 

My heart was moved; 
For then I saw the dear old flowers, 

Flowers that nu' mother loved. 

All 'round the flow^er bed I wandered, 

Like when a boy, 
Where long ago the da3'S I squandered, 

Each hour fill'd with joy. 
And there again I saw ni}- mother, 

From death removed; 
And once again we bent together 

Over the flowers she loved. 

Those flowers that are so ungainly 

And out of date, 
I see them once again so plainly 

Down at the old garden gate: 
There's dahlias, and poppies, and locust, 

And yellow rose. 
Hollyhocks, marigolds, and crocus, 

Down where the sweet pink grows. 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 73 



There's the tiger-lily, and belle-flower, 

In red and blue; 
Tulips, larkspurs, the snow-drop bower. 

Bright in the morning dew : 
Morning-glories, sweet pansy faces, 

Sent from above ; 
Clover blossoms in the odd places — 

Flowers of ni}' mother's love. 

And there was the daffodil blooming 

Like as of old, 
And little bach' lor buttons looming 

Like little .stars of gold. 
There were blue-flags, and lilacs bending 

Where sweet peas roved, 
And the sweet shrubs their fragrance blend- 
ing 

With the flowers my mother loved. 

And living thus again with mother. 

Holding her hand. 
And seeing once again my brother, 

Oh, such a dream is grand ! 
But soon the vision fades in waking, 

Gone is all jo\' ; 
I weep as tho' my heart is breaking. 

Just like a home-sick boy. 



74 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



THE WEARY WANDERER. 



Back in the dear old homestead 

Among the orchard trees, 
Before I had any friends dead, 

And the lightest Summer breeze 
Was not so light and joll}^ 

As that boyish heart of mine. 
And no thought of melancholy 

Could cause me to repine. 

But all day long went dreaming 

Among the orchard trees, 
W^here light through the leaves came streaming 

As they danced in the Summer breeze. 
But, after awhile, I tired 

Of living always at home. 
And more and more desired 

A few brief years to roam. 

I dreamed of towns and cities, 

Of countries far away. 
And all ni}- songs and ditties, 

As I worked among the hay. 
Were about the tramp and rover 

Who roam the land and sea ; 
And I wish'd my boyhood over, 

And I a tramp could be. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 75 



I pictured the broade.st river 

Where steamboats come and go, 
Where waves in moonlight shiver, 

And the world is all aglow 
With wealth, and pride, and treasure, 

And the heart of man is free ; 
And I thought, O, Lord ! such pleasure 

Would be a Heaven to me ! 

But now I'm sadh' dreaming 

Of that home among the trees, 
Where sunlight now is streaming 

Among the dancing leaves ; 
And I'm tired, oh, and wear}' ! 

And, if I could only see 
That old home, once so dreary. 

How happy I would be ! 

For the world, with all its treasures, 

With all its rivers wide, 
Can never bring the pleasures 

Of that dear old fireside. 
Oh, for the dear old faces 

Which never again I'll see ! 
Above all other places. 

Is that dear old home to me. 



76 SOJVGS OF THE DESERT. 



WHO SPOILED THE POET. 



Poets write gaily of flowers, 

And slobber and simper of love ; 
They write of the birds by the hours, 

Sing wild of the stars up above : 
They call it imagination, 

Or the vivid flight of true thought ; 
It would be low degradation 

To write of the kettle or pot. 

To set the angels to chiming, 

Is the true poetical twirl — 
There's nothing at all that's rhyming 

In the name of a working girl. 
To write of creatiires titanic, 

INIakes heroic verses, I'm sure. 
And praise to the name satanic. 

Is better than lauding the poor. 

They wTite of Kings and Princes, 

Their trials, their hopes, and their pride 
You ought to see how^ one winces 

To write of the beggar who died. 
I'm sick of the modern poet, 

I'm sick of the old masters, too ; 
They're hypocrites, and you know it — 

If you don't, then I'm sick of you. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



Why sing all the time of Heaven ? 

Forgetting the crude things below. 
Are eagles to music given 

Far more than the raven or crow ? 
The lofty peak of the mountain - 

Is it nearer to God 
Than the foot-hiils, where the fountain 

Has carpeted earth with a sod ? 

'Tis not the fault of the poet— 

'Tis the reader demanding bosh ; 
The world is silly— they know it, 

And they give it pumpkin for squash. 
They know the world is aesthetic, 

Brought up in the aesthetic school, 
And physic, or an emetic, 

Has the same effect on a fool. 



MY DOUBTS. 



If our God we cannot please 

By loving our poor neighbor, 
Need we our Creator tease 

With our love and labor ? 
Shall God still forgive our sin, 

W^hile we pinch our debtor ? 
Do these dollars we rake in 

Make our hard hearts better ? 



78 SO\CS OF THE DESERT. 



BACK AGAIN. 



Seventy-five I am to-da\', 

My teeth are gone, ni}- hair is gray ; 

But it does seem the shortest dream 

Since I set sail on life's rongh stream. 

I sailed in a circular course away, 

With heart so light, dancing all day, 

And now I trace the starting place — 

In ev'ry nook I see a face 

That long ago sailed out with me 

On life's strange, m^-sterious vSea. 

I'm back again to childhood's port. 

My thoughts are all of the old sort. 

And meni'ry seems, with childhood dreams, 

To harmonize the two extremes. 

And onlv thoughts come back to me 

I gathered at my mother's knee. 

Again I feel I'd love to kneel 

Down at her feet, and there appeal 

For her dear loving hand again 

To lead me through this world of pain. 

Again my father's face I see — 

Out through shadows it smiles on me ; 

M3' brothers, too, come into view. 

All smiling as they use to do ; 

My sisters all smile up to me, 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 79 



Just like the old times use to be, 
And old dog Gale, with wagging tail, 
I see him coming down the trail 
Where the wild rabbits use to run, 
And gave us boys tremendous fun. 

'Tis three score and ten years— ah me ! 
vSince I clung to my mother's knee. 
The trip is o'er, I'm back on shore- 
Back to the starting place once more. 
And there's no mem'ry left to me, 
Ko faces that I use to see. 
Except the few around me grew 
In childhood, now again in view : 
Only this mem'ry is left to me 
As I look over life's rough sea. 



THE CONTRAST. 



Little trousers, great big holes, 
Corporations without souls, 
Little wages, great big work. 
Small men suffer, big men shirk, 
Little feet with great big smell, 
Little heaven, great big hell : 
Thus in life I'm finding all 
The real good things awful small. 



8o SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



WHILE BETSEY PLAYED THE ORGAN. 



Betsej' at the organ pla3ing 

"Home, sweet home," that plaintive song 
At my feet the old dog sta3-ing, 

Stops to listen, sighs ere long. 
Does he hear my own heart sighing, 

While my thoughts go far away ? 
For he starts a dismal crying, 

Just as tho' his lips would saj'' : 

"Master, I know how you're thinking 

Of the home of former days. 
And your heart is softU" drinking 

These sad thoughts the organ plays : 
To your mind it brings a shadow 

Of the old home 'mong.st the trees, 
And you seem to see the meadow. 

Hear the sighing Summer breeze." 

Does he see that home neglected 

On the iris of my eye — 
Picture of that home reflected. 

Which I see ni3'self, and sigh ? 
Does the music softly ringing 

Both our hearts in mem'r\' lave? 
Do familiar voices, singing, 

Seem to come back from the grave? 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 8i 



Does he see my pale lips quiver ? 

Sad tears from m^^ lashes start ? 
While dear Betse3% God forgive her, 

Plays "Sweet Home" upon my heart? 
Cease your moaning, dog or devil, 

For you read my soul too well ! 
Beast of S3^nipathy, or evil. 

Can you future scenes foretell ? 

Will I see this dear home ever 

Where m}^ childhood mem'ries sleep? 
Where around the door so clever 

Morning glories use to creep ? 
But the old dog ceases crying, 

Lays his head upon the floor. 
Moans in answer to my sighing. 

Seems to say : "Oh, never more !" 

Are your moans commiserate 

For the longings in my breast ? 
Will I ever leave this desert 

For the old home in the East ? 
And the organ still is crying 

While the old dog on the floor 
Seems to answer to my sighing : 

"Never, never, never more !" 



82 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



HAPPY ! HAPPY NEW YEAR ! 



Happy new 3'ear, here you are ! 
You're not welcome, I declare. 
If 3'ou know how sad I am, 
You would know I'm playing sham. 
When I sa}^ I welcome 3^ou 
Back again, like folks all do. 
What care you for such as I ? 
What care you how soon I die ? 
You are only moving on, 
Doing work 3'ou cannot shun. 
Ev'ry year you come around. 
Walking on the frozen ground, 
Calling me a weakly thing, 
Caring not if in the spring 
Pneumonia or consumptive cough 
Conies and snatches me right off. 

Happ3' new 3'ear ! bah, such bosh ! 
Hand me down my Mackintosh ; 
You are bringing rain or snow 
Ev'r}' time your face 3'ou show. 
Yoti are counting wrinkles, too. 
On my face, were lines you drew ; 
Stroking down ni}^ scanty hair, 
To observe the silver there ; 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 83 



Patting me on my bald place, 
Saying I've run all to face ; 
Bearing on with bad intent, 
Just to make my body bent : 
Touch my teeth with foul deca}'. 
Take my keen e3'e-sight away. 
Happy new 3'ear ! bah, such stuff! 
How we liars pla}- you bluff ! 

Happy new 3'ear! now that's rum 

Since we hate to see 3'ou come : 

Even maidens, old and tough, 

Try to pla}' on 3'ou this bluff; 

Treat you in a style so soft, 

But ashamed to tell how oft 

You have pass'd them on the road, 

Since in market the^- have stood 

Waiting, as their friends all know ; 

Fishing, too, to catch a beau. 

The3''d a durn sight rather 3'ou 

Never came back into view, 

Unless it should be 3'our plan 

To fetch that long-looked-for man ; 

And each 3'ear then, with the snow, 

Bring some fresh heir, don't vou know .^ 



SOA^GS OF THE DESERT. 



LOOKING DOWN THE ROAD. 



There's a curious melancholy 

Seems to fall upon the mind, 
When we remember friends so jolh' 

Who are strewed along the line; 
And it seems to be such folh' 

Looking down the road behind; 
Oh, such melancholy folly, 

Looking down the road behind. 

When I look down this road behind me, 

W^here the plant of mem'ry blooms. 
Chains of sorrow come and bind me, 

And then lead me through Death's rooms; 
Memor^-'s tendrils then entwine me. 

As I walk among the tombs: 
Oh, sad recollections find me, 

As I walk among the tombs. 

And, all along this road, the living 

Are so swiftl^^ turning gra}'. 
And stern nature — unforgiving, 

Is carrj'ing them away: 
It is so melancholy living 

Among gloomy tombs all day — 
Oh, such melancholy living. 

Looking at these graves alway. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 85 



Looking down this road at sunset, 

Through the opalescent light — 
Far down life's narrow runlet, 

Until lost in nieni'r3''s night, 
Where we bo3'S had so much fun, yet 

So much labor in life's fight : 
Oh, I seem to be the last one left. 

Walking in the tombs to-night. 

Oh, I am sad to-night, don't mind me. 

And I seem no longer brave; 
For each step down the road behind me 

Seems to be an old friend's grave; 
And the shadows all remind me 

That the happiness I crave 
Is not down the road behind me, 

Where each footstep strikes a grave. 

The links of friendship time did sever 

Lay along this road behind, 
And I see old faces clever 

Beaming on me, loving, kind: 
Friends are gone from this life forever — 

I am weeping — never mind; 
I will \.ry my best endeavor 

To forget this road behind. 



86 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



A CHILD OF FATE. 



On the banks of the Bald Eagle, 

Many, many years ago, 
There was born of humble parents, 

When the skies were filled with snow, 
A little son, weak and fragile, 

With a slender hold on life ; 
But he lived and grew to manhood. 

Battled with a world of strife. 

Years of struggles, 3'ears of danger, 

Midst them all he lived and grew ; 
Three times the Bald Eagle w^ater 

Hid his bare-foot form from view. 
But each time the boy was rescued, 

And brought back again to life ; 
Child of fate and circumstances, 

Born to hardships and to strife. 

Far across the troubled ocean, 

Where the Danube waters flow. 
There was born a German maiden, — 

Who she was you soon will know ; 
For her parents were ambitious, 

And a feeling of unrest 
Filled their souls with a strange longing 

For a land far in the West. 



SO.XGS OF THE DESERT. 87 

And this little German maiden 

Cross'd the mighty, trackless sea ; 
Left behind a narrow kingdom, 

Fonnd this broad land of the free. 
Fate had, too, prepared a lover 

For the little German maid, 
And the boy from the Bald Eagle 

In her presence one day strayed. 

What strange law, and what strange reason 

Caused her 3-oung heart to beat ? 
And the boy from the Bald Eagle 

Lays his poor heart at her feet. 
Why should these two meet as lovers ? 

Why should both hearts palpitate ? 
What strange law brought them together ? 

If it's not the hand of fate. 

These two strange souls were united ; 

Fate ordained it should be so ; 
Sons were born, and, of that number, 

There is one Grit readers know. 
If the boy from the Bald Eagle, 

And the maid from Danube's shore. 
Were not brought by fate together. 

And each other to adore ; 

If the waters of Bald Eagle, 

When they sw^allowed up the lad, 
Had not been robbed of their victim. 

Would the maid a lover had ? 



8^ SOA'GS OF THE DESERT. 



If they had not met as lovers, 
And five sturdy sons begat. 

If they ne'er had seen each other, 
Where, oh, where would I be at ! 



MY CREED. 



Loving man has been my creed, 

With pity for the lowh^ ; 
Binding hearts where sorrows bleed, 

This working passage slowh* 
O'er the rugged stream of life, 

Where mortal man is sailing. 
Ships are sinking in the strife. 

And hearts of Captains failing. 
If I see my brother's ship 

Crippled beyond sailing. 
I must help retain his grip, 

And lend a hand at bailing. 



ART. 



The dog with the savved-off tail, 
And the dudelet, so awfully smart. 

And the summer girl dressed like a male- 
They are all a poor work of art. 



S0NC7S OF THE DESERT. 



THOUGHTS ON THEOSOPHY 



Why do I dream of things — 
Shadows of unknown wings — 
Sleep to my mem'r\- brings 

While in repose ? 
Whence come these thought-light beams, 
Kven in mid-daj^ dreams? 
Life a strange myst'r}' seems — 

Only God knows. 

Thoughts I ne'er heard before 
Knock at my nienior}' door. 
Pass awa}', come no more 

To me again; 
Then, on some other da}', 
Stranger thoughts come to stay, 
Burdens upon me la}-, 

Where jo}- has lain. 

Has my soul, all unknown, 
From an existence flown. 
Where it has slowh' grown, 

Beyond our ken? 
Has this soul I hold dear — 
Passing through trials here — 
Lived on this mundane sphere 

In other men ? 



90 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



And, in the years to come, 
Must this world be its home, 
Go back into the womb. 

Be born again ? 
Must it this cold world trod. 
And, ere it goes abroad. 
Become as pure as God — 

Free from all stain ? 

If this soul is to live 
With its God, I believe 
We our poor souls deceive 

With death and pain; 
For death is but a rest. 
Soul freed from mortal breast: 
When God knows it is best, 

We live again. 

If God created all 

Long ere poor Adam's fall, 

All He needs is to call 

Souls from the air; 
And, at a new child's birth, 
Souls that belong to earth 
Send a companion forth, 

Child-life to share. 

So may it ever be, 
Until each soul is free ; 
All of God's love to see, 
And be His own : 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 91 



Life here is but a da^', 
Death but a night, they say 
Ages must pass away 

Ere we're full grown. 

What do we know of life 
Outside its pain and strife? 
All sorts of faith is rife — 

Who knows the right ? 
Better far not to know, 
Else God would tell us so, 
And we must groping go 

Out in the night. 



SOCIETY. 



Proudh' marching, daint\- feet, 

Hands too soft for using ; 
Blood wrung from poor hearts they eat- 

Ah, 'tis so amusing 
Walking on the upturned face 

Of a starving neighbor, 
Crushing hands at ev'ry pace, 

Crushing hearts with labor. 
Lordl}' castles dripping blood. 

Where sighs, like zephyrs, blowing ; 
Silks and satin steeped in flood 

Of widow's tears, while sewins:. 



92 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



LIFE, 



Oh, Life, 3-0U are the strangest thing! 

Poets of 3'our m^'ster^' sing. 

None know the place whence 3'ou have come. 

Or why yon left your far-off home. 

In my own boch' you did creep 

At some time while I la}' asleep. 

I do not know where we first met; 

I try to think it out, but yet 

I cannot think of an 3- time, 

Of such oblivion sublime. 

When you and I were set apart, 

And there was silence in \\\\ heart; 

When these two eyes were closed and blind, 

And no thought lived within my mind. 

When I could neither feel nor think — 

Withor-t a thought or bare instinct — 

When I was scattered in the air, 

In the earth, and everywhere, — 

Now where did you exist, ere we 

Were joined in this strange mystery? 

Oh, was it in the day or night 
When first we met? and was it right 
That you should dwell within my skin 
Without permission to move in ? 



SOXOS OF THE DESERT. 



And when yon forced ni}' heart to move, 
Was it selfishness or love? 
And all these little aches and pains — 
Of which a mem'ry still remains — 
Within my little bod}' frail, 
When doctors tried, withont avail, 
To make yon live more at yonr ease, 
And not so mnch \\\\ body tease, — 
W>re 3'on then of Death afraid ? 
And were calling lond for aid? 
Were then each pain and ache yonr cry, 
To warn me that, if yon shonld die. 
The air wonld me dissolve again, 
And pnt me back where I had lain 
Before yon came in search of me, 
i\nd bronght me out of mvsterv? 



Oh, Life, tell me, are we true friends? 
Since nature sometime soon intends 
To part us, and drive yon away, 
And turn my body to deca\'. 
Why don't you let me speak to you? 
Wh}' don't we meet in friendship true? 
Wh}' don't 3'ou tell me all you know. 
And what you think of things below? 
Why can't you tell me, out of love, 
If there is a great world above ? 
Where you will go when 3'ou depart, 
And leave but silence in m^- heart. 
Are you immortal — do you know? 



94 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



Oh, tell me all this ere you go. 

Tell me, tell me, oh, tell me true ! 

What relation am I to ^'ou ? 

And wh}- this silence, oh, m\' friend? 

Or do you cruelh' intend 

To go off some sad, drear\' day. 

And leave my body to decay? 

Ah, Life, are _vou but part of me? 
Is it with ni}- dim eyes 3'ou see ? 
Is it with my weak heart 3'ou feel. 
And in like mortal weakness kneel 
Dowm at the feet of myst'ry deep — 
Where all the tongues of knowledge sleep, 
And will not answer those who ask 
The gods of myster}- to unmask; 
And show us mortals all we crave 
To know of things be3'ond the grave ? 
Ah, Life, 3'ou may be asking me 
Concerning these strange things we see: 
You may imagine that 'tis I 
God has intended shall not die; 
And you ma}' wonder where I go. 
When I have disappeared below\ 
Oh, if we had a language known 
To both of us, how very soon 
At loggerheads we both would be, 
Discussinof immortalitv. 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 95 



LIFE'S BLOODY BATTLE. 



Oh, life is only a battle, 

With poverty and disease ; 
I hear all around the rattle 

Of the falling yellow leaves : 
Yellow leaves that fought all summer 

Against the hail and the frost ; 
They fall now without a murmur ; 

They fought to the death— and lost. 

The storms beat down on the mountains, 

The ocean lashes the shore, 
The streams charge down from the fountains 

Like gladiators at war : 
There's no time for words or praying, 

There is no time for remorse : 
Hold fast where the great rocks are laying, 

And only be moved by force. 

The birds and the beasts are fighting, 

The big fish eat the small ; 
But, true as I am waiting. 

There's only defeat for all. 
In life's fight there is no quarter, 

vSo brace your back to the wall ; 
Your blood will mix with the mortar, 

And stain the earth where you fall. 



96 SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



Are you wear}^ fighting, brother ? 

Do you wish the battle o'er? 
Would you swop this world for another, 

Where mortals never explore ? 
Ah, you dare not shirk this battle, 

Or refuse a warrior's grave ; 
You must fear not death's harsh rattle. 

For the world loves onlv the brave. 



A BAD COUGH. 



There's the whooping cough, 

And consumption cough. 
But the very worst cough, I declare, 

Is to take your mash, 

And cough up 3'our cash 
For the heathen, at a church fair. 

There's the whisky cough, 

And dyspeptic cough, 
But the cough that will Christians surprise, 

Is to never shirk, 

But cough up good work 
Until you land in Paradise. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 97 



MYSELF. 



I wonder if some writer, in future years, 

Will write a biography of me. 
And will he know of my struggles, and my tears, 

And how ambitious I use to be ? 
No ; no one will know the secrets of my soul, 

No one will know my longings and strife, 
No one will know how I tried to reach the goal. 

No one will know my most secret life. 

Will he call me by the name I long have known, 

And say to the world : "He was a man 
Who never had inspirations of his own — 

His soul was of the prosaic plan ?" 
And will the world then think it knows my stoiy, 

After reading those few careless lines ? 
Believing that I simply wrote for glory ? 

And not for paltry dollars and dimes ? 

Are they only noble who write for glory — 

Who have large fortunes already won. 
Whose ancestors have always lived in story — 

Who ask praise only for all they've done ? 
And shall I, because I have written for bread, 

Be despised for my lowly labor ? 
Spoken of in pity after I am dead, 

Bv mv aristocratic neighbor ? 



98 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



They will never know nij- histor}' — never ! 

There is a world within me unknown, 
Even to ni3-self, and this world forever 

Shall be a desert when life has flown. 
For even I am j-et a total stranger 

Within these strange walls of flesh and bone ; 
Trembling so often at some unknown danger, 

And fearing to meet grim Death alone. 

No ! nobody will ever tell my secrets, 

For no one can read my secret mind ; 
The}' will know not my longings, sorrows, regrets. 

And these are the life of all mankind. 
Even could my own e^^es look back and see. 

From that strange dreamland be3-ond the tomb. 
Ah, the}' might drop a pitying tear for me, 

Knowing how blindly I met my doom. 

Even ni3' dearest friends, who daih' see me. 

Know not the strange secrets of ni}^ mind : 
And do 3'ou think, when death at last shall free me, 

All ni}' secrets will be left behind ? 
No ; when I leave this world of pain and sorrow, 

IM}- longings shall melt into the air, 
And the whole world, after death's to-morrow, 

Will forget that I was ever here. 



SO.XGS OF THE DESERT. 99 



PHILOSOPHY OF THE HAT. 



The man who wears his hat on the back of his head. 
With his hair pasted down on his forehead, 

You can make up your mind that his pride is not dead, 
Tho' his looks nia\' be utterly horrid. 

If he wears his beaver down over his ear, 

And then tilted his one eye quite over. 
He feels good enough to have thousands a 3-ear, 

And is up to his crupper in clover. 

If he tilts the brim downward square over his eyes, 

And cocked up behind like a feather. 
Oh, you'll find him a trickster then, to 3'our surprise; 

And you'll not be long trav'ling together. 

If he wears his new hat square on top of his head, 

And it looks as tho' it was too small. 
You may make up your mind that he's genteelly bred. 

But no good to the big world at all. 

If he wears his hat firml}-, and squareh', and straight. 

Neither cocked up in front nor behind, 
He may carry a brain that is moving the state, 

With a heart that is lovins: and kind. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



But, if it seems crowded far down on his ears, 
And they look so lopped -over and flabby, 

He's either a skinflint, grown harder with years, 
Or, he may be half-w^itted and shabb}-. 

So be careful, \-oung man, how 3'ou're wearing your hat, 
For 3'our character shines out from under; 

And the people who see you will put 3-ou down pat, 
For a man, or a nuisance, by thunder. 



MY FARM. 



When a bo}- I use to labor 

Ev'ry summer on the farm. 
For nu' richest, nearest neighbor, 

Doing work of ev'r}' form. 
In the hot sun, weak and wear}-, 

How I often longed for shade ! 
How I envied farmer Clear}-. 

And positions longed to trade. 

How I wished to be the owner 

Of a farm with such broad fields. 
For I thought I'd ten times sooner 

Live on what the rich soil 3-ields, 
Than to work for such small money 

Fourteen hours ev'r}- day, 
Like the poor bee storing hone}- 

For some one to take awa}-. 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



One da\' my old father, guessing 

What was passing in ni\' mind, 
Said, ' ' There is no use thus distressing 

Your head with thoughts of this kind; 
For you own a territory 

Richer than these fields are here, 
Where you can win cash and glor}', 

If you go to plowing there. 

You've a casket filled with treasure 

That will each 3'ear profit yield; 
In the shade, and at your pleasure. 

You can cultivate this field. 
And it needs no fertilizer, 

If 3'ou cultivate with care, 
And ev'r}^ year be growing wiser, 

If 3-ou do \'our plowing there. ' ' 

Since that day I have been toiling 

In the field of which he spoke. 
But at first it seemed hard moiling — 

Aching heart at ever\' stroke. 
Bitter weeds in corners growing — 

Weeds of env}^ and disdain; 
These I pulled up, so well knowing 

They would smother golden grain. 

Now that field is paj'ing profit 
More than Clear3''s whole estate, 

And its fruit — a sample of it 
Is in this tale I relate. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



'Twas my think-pot I've been plowing, 
Raising nonsense for the press. 

"Small potatoes," you're avowing — 
Well, they '11 pay to dig, I guess. 



DESERT HEART. 



Out on the desert the scorching heat 
Down on the barren gray sand does beat, 
So hot that it burns the trav'ler's feet, 

And the earth is cr^-ing for rain : 
Far in the distance the whirl-winds dance, 
Over the sand hills the}' gaily prance, 
While the great silence our souls entrance. 

And our heart sings this sad refrain : 

Where are the flowers which bloom in spring. 
And to the desert their fragrance bring ? 
Here is the dry stem, poor withered thing, 

Left bleaching since touched b}' Death. 
Ah, where are the jo3'S, of m}' soul a part, 
Joys of life's spring time, before the smart 
Of sorrows left their stems in my heart; 

How they rattle in mem'ry's breath ! 



SOiYGS OF THE DESERT. ip3 



Now life is but withered stems to me, 
Death is the desert Eternity; 
After I cross it what will there be ? 

Is there water be^'ond the range ? 
Plodding along in the desert sand, 
Passively holding to Hope's frail hand. 
Shall w^e cross over to some fair land ? 

Ah, neighbor, this journey seems strange. 

Hand-boards erected along the wa\' 
Speak of a countr}' where endless day 
Reigns forever, and there, too, thej' sa}-. 

Sweet flowers forever will bloom. 
This land, the}^ sa}-, is be3-ond our ken, 
Never beheld h\ the e3^es of men ; 
'Tis onh' a dream land — ah, then. 

It leaves us so much to presume. 

Alone I 'm walking the desert sand. 
Even unclasped from hope's frail hand, 
Going blindl}' to that unknown land, 

Simply going because I must. 
With all the pain from sun's heat vSevere, 
While all the flowers begin to sear, 
I would rather stay forever here. 

Than go back to the desert dust. 



104 SO.XGS OF THE DESERT. 



MY LOVE STORY 



Oh, wasn't it strange to you and me, 

When we sat in the parlor long ago; 

Both hearts as loving as love could be, 
And we said that through all eternity 
I belonged to you, and 3'ou to nie, 

And your eyes were bright with love's sweet glow. 

We knew of a parting soon to come 
That would take you thousands of miles away, 

And we thought of it like creatures dumb ; 

It seemed so hard to be parted from 

The one we loved, and the dear old home 
Seemed full of sadness that autumn day. 

Oh, how we lingered that autumn day, 
And my hand, unthinking, \'our hand sought; 
Your drooping head on my shoulder la3% 
And we thought of 3^011 going far away, 
And the onl^- words of hope w^e could say ; 
Our love is too pure to come to naught. 

I slipped a ring on \'Our passive hand. 
And kissed the lips upturned to mine. 

And thought to myself, oh, love is grand ! 

No sweeter blessing could gods demand; 

So tender, yet such a might\' band. 
Stronger than chains our hearts entwine. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 105 



For two long \-ears, 3'es, almost three, 
After 3'oii wandered from that spot, 

Only in mem'ry I lived with thee. 

And in my dreams your face could see; 

But these old, old words came back to me 
Our love is too pure to come to naught. 

How strange it seems to me and mine 

To meet again far from that spot ; 
To feel our loving arms entwine, 
To kiss those lips upturned to mine. 
To see those e3'es so loving sliine, 

With a love too pure to come to naught. 



POOR FARMER BOY. 



What makes the sky so blue, 

Oh, farmer boy? 
Wh\' sing the birds for you. 

Poor, farmer bo\' ? 
Why are the fields so green ? 
Fairer than ever seen ; 
There is a cause, I ween. 

Oh, farmer boy. 

All 3-our clothes are so coarse, 

Oh, farmer bo}- ; 
And shoes even worse, 

Poor farmer boy ; 



io6 SOA^GS OF THE DESERT. 



Coarse is the food you eat, 
Tho' it ma}' taste so sweet, 
Back in 3"Our lone retreat. 
Poor farmer boy. 

Go whistling to 3'our plow, 

Oh, farmer boy ; 
I know your secret now, 

Poor farmer boy : 
All you love are near to you, 
Friends, and all dear to you; 
There comes no fear to you, 

Oh, farmer bo}'. 

Over the fields, I know, 

Oh, farmer bo\', 
Tripping gaily to and fro, 

Poor farmer bo\' ; 
There is a maiden fair, 
With countr}- beauty rare — 
Your heart is always there. 

Poor farmer boj\ 

What care 3'ou for the strife, 

Oh, farmer boy ; 
Or for another life. 

Poor farmer boy : 
Home is the world to you. 
Where all the friends are true. 
Sweet' ning your work for you, 

Oh, farmer boy. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 107 



Build castles in the air, 

Oh, farmer boy. 
And put your sweetheart there, 

Poor farmer boy ; 
Long not for other joys. 
Like the proud city boys, 
Who fill their life with toys. 

Poor farmer boy. 

Here is where great men grow. 

Oh, farmer bo3% 
Some time you, too, may go, 

Poor farmer boy ; 
Far above the city man, 
Who lives to scheme and plan. 
But seldom leads the van, 

Poor farmer boy. 

Go whistling to your plow, 

Oh, farmer bo}^ ; 
I know 3'our secret now. 

Poor farmer bo}': 
You love the sky so blue. 
And all the green fields, too. 
And some one who loves you. 

Oh, farmer boy. 



io8 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



WHEN DADDY SAID THE 
BLESSING. 



I am sitting by the window 

In my far-off western home, 
But my mind goes off a dreaming, 

And refuses back to come; 
For I love to dwell on events 

That occurred so long ago, 
When we were all bo3's together, 

And were bent on mischief so: 
The faces w^e made at table. 

When our mother felt so shocked, 
While our daddy said the blessing 

With his eyes half cocked. 

We boys were never so pious 

That we could sit still, and wait 
Until the blessing was finished. 

With our eyes upon the plate; 
But we'd pinch each other slyly, 

Or pull at the old dog's tail. 
And make faces at the bab3% 

Who would then set up a wail; 
But at times we felt dad's knuckles 

Just where our bangs were docked. 
For he sometimes said the blessing 

With his e3'es half cocked. 



SO.yGS OF THE DESERT. 109 



But mother seemed to love us, so 

She kept our secrets well, 
And all our deeds must be quite mean 

To make her up and tell; 
And we had lots of fun always 

When our daddy's e3'es were shut. 
And when his dear old back was turned 

We dropped in the noisj' rut; 
And, even at the table, we 

All decent manners shocked, 
While our daddy said the blessing 

With his eyes half cocked. 

Oh, that dear old, kind old dadd}' ! 

And that sweet old mother dear ! 
How often I have wished of late 

I could have them with me here; 
But life is, oh, so very short ! 

And our joys so weak and frail. 
That even when we laugh too loud. 

We wdnd up with a wail; 
And old grim Fate seems to watch us 

With his hands before him locked. 
Like when dadd\' said the blessings 

With his eves half cocked. 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



DREAMLAND FACES. 



"Sweet dreamland faces, dancing to and fro, 
Bring back to mem'ry days of long ago." 
So sang the stranger, gazing in the stream, 
Seeing lov'd faces pictured in his dream: 
Down where the waters turn to deepest blue. 
Where cluster faces who once lov'd him true. 
But these dear faces quickh' disappear. 
For on the water drops a bitter tear. 

Sweet dreamland faces, come to me again ! 
Tho' you give heart-ache and such homesick pain, 
No more my teardrops shall obscure its view 
While looking tenderly on faces true. 
Down in the bosom of the flowing stream. 
Come back the faces of mem'r>''s dream — 
Home of my childhood pictured in the deep. 
Even the bed-room where I used to sleep. 

There stands my father with his aged form, 
His long hair frosted in life's chilly storm; 
And my old mother standing b}' his side, 
Seems to look on me with the same old pride. 
See her smile gently, while her tender e^-es 
Light up so loving with glad surprise. 
Dear God in heaven. Father of the stream ! 
Will the resurrection be like this dream ? 



SOjXGS OF' THE DESERT. 



There stand my brothers looking in my face, 
Each line familiar, easily to trace ! 
Some of them living, some of them asleep, 
But all seem wakened, pictured in the deep: 
They all seem life-like in their worldly homes, 
For here in dreamland grim death never comes. 
But my heart is aching with silent pain, 
Dear God in heaven ! shall we meet again .'' 

Sweet dreamland faces, speak, oh, speak to me ! 
Will you all meet me in eternity? 
Are thoughts of heaven only like a dream — 
Only a picture shadow^ed on life's -stream ! 
Will death make ripples, blotting out the view- 
Hiding forever these pictures of you ? 
Dear God in heaven, let, oh let me know. 
When ends this dreamland, whither shall I go ? 



TOVK. 



Ah, there is but one love true — 
Love so deep that it is blind. 

Giving the whole world up for you 
And leaving home and friends behind. 



THE BULLY. 



The man w^ho wants to slap your face 
For disputing things not true, 

Would shoot you down within your place, 
If caught burglarizing you. 



SOA'GS OF THE DESERT. 



THE CRIES GO UP TO HEAVEN, 



Last night I dreamed that I sat up in heaven, 

And very close to the celestial throne, 
Where I could hear, every day of the seven, 

The prayer of the world and its bitter moan, 

Cr3'ing for mere}- in beseeching tone. 

"Lord, thou hast forsaken us ! " cried the starving; 
"Our strong brothers rob us of all we get ; 

We do all the digging, delving and carving. 
Exposed to the snow, the frost and the wet. 
And still w^e have never seen justice yet. 

"O, Lord, I am weary! Lord, I am dying! 
Oh, so hungry and cold ! and do you care ? 

Have you turned a deaf ear unto our crying, 
And forsaken the poor everywhere — 
Paying no heed to their bitter prayer? 

"Lord, did you make us in da3^s of creation 
To be poor slaves — to be never satisfied. 

To bear the heavy burdens of this nation. 
While the proud aristocrats us deride ? 
Did you intend Justice in wealth's divide?" 

And I dreamed I looked on the struggling masses, 
As they writhed and twisted in their greed for gold 

And I saw the pride of the haughty classes, 

While the hungry masses were bought and sold, 
And the orphan suffered hunger and cold. 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 113 



And I noticed that, one day out of seven, 

They went to their churches to offer up prayer ; 

Expe(5ting that words would take them to heaven, 
From the hell of man's own creation here — 
From the hunger and pain felt ev'ry where. 

And the angels whispered to one another : 
"How the poor suffer under greed's rod ! 

For the rich won't own the poor man his brother. 
How hardly shall they see the Kingdom of God ! 
As Jesus had said when this earth he trod." 



READY TO GO. 



I useter look on death an' d3'in' 

As a dretful, orful thing, 
An' I couldn't keep from cryin'. 

An' ni3^ hands I useter wring. 
When grim Death 'u'd come an' carr}^ 

Dear old frien's right from my side, 
An' I'd feel so orful sorr}- 

While behint the hearse I'd ride. 

But so many hev gone over 
To that place they talk about 

In the meetin', an' where clover 

Grows knee-high, an' there, no doubt, 



114 SOA'GS OF THE DESERT. 



They are happy doin' nuthin' 
But a play in' harps ov gold, 

An' their angel stomachs stuffin' 
Jist as full as the}- kin hold. 

An' this world is not so jolly 

As it was when I was young, 
An' at times a melancholy 

Over my poor heart is sprung; 
An' at ev'nin', settin' smokin', 

Thinkin' ov these Men's so true, 
Sumthin' in my breast comes chokin', 

An' I wanter be dead, too. 

Even if death is but sleepin' — 

That beats this world, at its best, 
For there' d be no hunger creepin' — 

Jist a lazy in' at rest. 
While I'm settin' smokin', weary, 

Lis'nin' to the wind's soft "woo-oo !' 
This here world seems growin' drear}^ 

An' I wanter be dead, too. 

If these frien's that has gone over 

To this world ov joy an' peace, 
Are a wallpwdn' in clover 

Where the noon-spells never cease; 
An' such sights as they are seein' ! 

An' there's nuthin' else ter do 
But jist everlastin' bein' 

Jolly, an' a singin', too. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 115 



What's the use ov me a missin' 

All the good times over there? 
Where the summer wiuds is kissin' 

An' a blowin' through your hair. 
All my best frien's hev departed, 

An' there's nuthin' else ter do 
But ter die, an' then be carted 

Over to the boneyard, too. 



HE SHOCKED THE WORLD. 



Onc't there was a little boy who wanted to be seen ; 

He was very tall and slender, and freckle-faced, and lean. 

He longed to become famous, and win praise and renown. 

And be the one admired bo}^ of all the boys in town. 

He longed to be a hero, and have people at his feet, 

To seledl the best of all things, and give him just the sweet. 

When he was told to do the chores, he'd onl}^ laugh and 

mock, 
And give his folks and relatives the meanest kind of shock. 
But he had great ambitions to become, oh, very rich, 
To be president, or gov' nor, he didn't care just which ; 
But he wanted things to come to him of their own accord. 
And all he'd hafter do would be to just set down and board. 
He only wish't to set all day in the shade and dream, 
ALud have the good things come to him, like bubbles on a 

stream ; 



ii6 SOXGS OF THE DESERT 



But if you'd vSpeak of study, he'd only laugh and mock, 
And sa}^ if he could not win fame, he'd give the world a 

shock. 
Long before he was a man, all his people knew 
There was no kind of honest work this boy would do ; 
So they prayed for him in meetin', when he was there, 
But he'd set and make faces durin' the hull pray'r. 
But he thought, somehow, that fortune was bound to come. 
Just because he wdsh't it, and knew more than some 
People gave him credit for, and some day, by jocks. 
He'd give the w^orld and neighbors some gee-meUvShly 

shocks. 
I know lots of boys like him, dear reader, don't 3'ou? 
So in love with themselves that there's nothin' they 

wnll do ; 
But will set and build castles all the day long. 
And picture themselves like the man in the song ; 
The owner of horses, fine houses and land. 
And just lay on the divan, and never turn their hand 
To do toilin', or spinnin', or darnin' of socks. 
But just have successes that'll give the world shocks. 
Well, this boy that I mentioned, he grew to manhood, 
And never was known to do one stroke of good ; 
But kept longin' for glory, for fame and renown, 
And to be the biggest mogul in the hull town ; 
So he soon took to stealin', then robbin' a store — 
Was 'rested for murder, and for sheddin' of gore. 
And, even on the gallows, he set there and mocked ; 
But his neck was soon broken — the world it was shocked- 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. "7 



LIFE IS ALL GUESvS-WORK. 



This life is a thing uncertain, 

Begins and ends like a dream ; 
It starts from behind a curtain, 

Then flows to an unknown stream. 
The future is merely guessing, 

The past a struggle severe; 
We call ev'rything a blessing 

That keeps us existing here. 

In childhood we dream of conquest, 

Of things we'll do when full grown; 
Our friends will be ev'ryone blest 

With riches that's all our own. 
We'll marry the fairest creature, 

Who will own half of this sphere; 
Her other redeeming feature 

Will be, calling us her "dear." 

W^e make ourself a liar, 

A boaster, and thing so vain ; 
In secret we do aspire 

To see all our rivals slain. 
We picture ourself in battle, 

WHth blood dripping from our sword- 
Voice sounding above the rattle, 

Defiance in ev'ry word. 



ii8 SOA'GS OF THE DESERT. 



But soon all these castles vanish — 

We wed a maid with cold feet; 
All sleep from our eyes she'll banish, 

And make our mis'ry complete. 
She'll double up on the pillow 

Like an Irish peddler's pack, 
And, w^orse than a North sea billow. 

Are her cold feet to our back. 

And then will the rent collector, 

And the money-lending shark, 
And the social-line inspector 

Be making this old world dark. 
Our future is now uncertain. 

We know not the date or day. 
When Death will hoist the curtain. 

And move us out of the w^a3\ 

It 's all sheer nonesense for preachers 

Marking out a path in life. 
For even the best of teachers 

Are meeting with unseen strife : 
It is all groping and guessing, 

From the hour w^e are born, 
And we only get the blessing 

Like the blind pig got the corn. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 119 



LITTLE NELL. 



Of my earh' childhood dreaming, 
Sitting on the vine-clad stoop, 
Where the moonlight comes in streaming, 
And the climbing roses droop; 
Sitting musing, 
Scenes confusing- 
Come back, mem'ry disabusing; 
And dear childhood faces beaming 

Through the shadows on the stoop. 
Where the climbing roses, seeming 
Like the heads of children, droop. 

Away back in the shadows- misty 
Hanging o'er the days of j'ore, 
I see myself and Nellie Listlie 
Sliding down the cellar door. 
Ma's prediction 
Of the friction, 
Beyond doubt or contradiction — 
Said she, as she stooped and kissed me: 

"You must not slide any more; 
For no cloth can ever resist the 
Friction of the cellar door." 

But we kept on gently sliding, 
For such joys the soul enchants. 

Says I, "Nell," as we went gliding, 

''You can't strike matches on w//r pants! 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



Says she, grinning. 
Sweetly winning, 
"I tould do it at bedinnin', 
But dis vslidin', an' dis glidin' 

Wif you on dis door each day, 
(Dere's no use de setret hidin'), 
I haint no more built dat way." 

Drooping head and sweetly blushing 

As we climbed the door so steep, 
And we heard my mother hushing 
Little brother back to sleep; 
Sa3-s Nell, turning. 
With face burning. 
And with one hand me she's spurning: 
"Do away, an' don't you tease me, 

Tause you don't know what I see. 
Did 3^ou spile 3'our pants ter please me ? 
You're edzactly built like me! " 

Little Nellie! long years sleeping 

In the church-yard over there; 
And the 3^ears so sureh" creeping, 
Scatter silver in ni\^ hair. 

Soon I'll meet her. 
And will greet her. 
In a world more fair and sweeter, 
And I hope to find her sliding 

Down the door eternity; 
Whisp'ring to the Lord, confiding: 
"He's edzactlv built like me." 



SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 



lONE. 



There's a lone grave far out on the silent prairie, 

Where only the sighing winds and the coyote's howl is 
heard. 
Here sleeps lone, once as beautiful as a fair3% 

And whose song was once sweeter than the song of a 
bird. 

The great sand storms in the summer sometimes sweep 
over 

The deep-sunken grave where the Indian maiden sleeps. 
And the snow in winter falls deep enough to cover 

The devil-tongue cactus, where the primrose creeps. 

There's a silence in the air that makes one feel dreary, 
Broken only now and then by the crow overhead; 

And while you stand alone, your mind debates the query, 
If such solitude is not even felt b}- the dead. 

lone was but a dark-eyed, dusky half-breed maiden, 
Her father a white trader, and her mother a Ute. 

She fell in love with a hunter, dashing Dick Hayden, 
AVho returned her true affections, and soon won his suit. 

But there was an Indian lover for the maiden. 

The wily hunter and trailer, the big, brave Ahnieek; 

And he had sworn to kill the bold hunter, Dick Ha3'den, 
And for a chance to slav him the Indian did seek. 



SOYGS OF THE DESERT. 



So, lone and her lover, at the midnight hour, 
Stole silently awa^' from her grandfather's tepee; 

And each took a horse, saying it was lone's dower,. 

And rode away in the darkness, with hearts light and 
free. 

Over mountains, down canons they rode, silence keeping; 

Down deep gulches, across arroyos, onward they ride, 
While the old grandfather in his tepee is sleeping, 

Never dreaming that the hunter has stolen his bride. 

But the Indian, Alimeek, soon discovers 

That the maiden he loved with the white hunter has fled; 
He is soon mounted and in pursuit of the lovers. 

And each leap of the horse nods the gay plumes on his 
head. 

Away on the lonel}' prairie, two days after, 

He overtakes the truants, and his keen blade leaps out; 
Goaded on to madness b}' hearing their gay laughter. 

He holds aloft his knife and gives an exultant shout. 

They meet, the rivals and the maiden; no word is spoken; 

But the lovers spur their horses and at each other dart; 
The maiden rides between them, and both blows are broken, 

With the blades, aimed at each other, buried in her heart. 

They pause, and, with great horror, the\' glance at each 

other. 
" The great spirit has decided," the Indian said. 
"We will bury our love in sorrow, now^ ni}' brother, 
And with our own wicked hands dig a grave for our 

dead." 



SOuYGS OF THE DESERT. 



Two days they sat there fasting; they are foes no longer; 

Now they both love the maiden in the spirit land; 
They mnst be good friends now, for their hatred would 
wrong her; 

And over Tone's grave they grasp each other's hand. 

Then the}' both ride away, across the dreary- prairie, 
The hunter to the east, the Indian to the west, 

And left lone sleeping — lone, the dusky fairy — 
lone, the half-breed maiden, now forever at rest. 



RURAL ^lELODIES. 



There is music in the meadows. 

There is music in the brush, 
But exceptin' when it thunders. 

When there seems to be a hush. 
Yes, but in the morning early 

When the sun begins to rise. 
There's a thousand trills of music 

Goes ascending to the skies: 
When the pigs cr}- for their breakfast 

In their little round log pen, 
There's the "Kuck, kuck, kuck, chee-kaw-kuck 

Of the early layin' hen. 



124 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



There 'vS the robin on the pear tree 

Singiii' "Purt, purt, piirt, purt, purt!" 
And the guinea in the meadow 

Yellin' jist as tho' 'twas hurt; 
And the pee-wee on the stable 

Calls his wife, "My dear Phoebe," 
And the chick-a-dee is there, too, 

Singin' "Chick-a-dee, dee dee! " 
And the swallows skim the heavens. 

And don't seem to care a darn 
For the "Kuck, kuck, kuck, chee-kAw-kuck! 

Of the rooster in the barn. 

And the farmer boy goes whistlin' 

On his way to start the plow, 
And there's no fog horn to equal 

The loud bellow of the cow; 
And the old black crow and raven 

That go soarin' over head 
Send us down a caw so dismal. 

While the}' look for somethin' dead; 
And there's the brown thrush, and ja}" bird, 

And the little Jennie wren. 
And the "Kuck, kuck, kuck, chee-kaw-kuck! 

Of the cross old hatchin' hen. 

Oh, there's music in the country. 

When the city's got the blues, 
And the fields all over flowers 

In a thousand brilliant hues; 
And the happy songs of nature 

Can be heard on ev'r}- hill. 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 125 



Minglin' with the gurglin' music 

Of the little ripplin' rill; 
And the housewife saves the onions 

With some cuss words and with sticks, 
Midst the " Kuck, kuck, kuck, chee-kaw-kuck! 

Of the old hen with her chicks. 



EBB AND FLOW. 



Ebb and flow, come and go. 

Just like the tide is our life below : 

High-tide conies in. child life begins, 

Roll on the shore in a frolicsome din. 

Flow- back tide, the old man died, 

Swept to the ocean so deep and wdde : 

Come once more, leave a child at our door. 

Take a grandfather with you when you leave the shore. 

The waves come in, and the waves go back. 

And the new come in on the old wave's track ; 

Come and go, ebb and flow, 

Youth comes in and age must go. 

High on the wave child life does flow, 

While age goes out in the under-tow. 

Ships sail o'er midst the ocean's roar, 
Just like our hopes sail evermore. 
Hopes of to-day sail down the bay. 
Out on the ocean and fade away ; 



126 SO.YGS OF THE DESERT. 



Toss'd on the deep where cruel rocks sleep, 
Dashed to pieces — there's no time to weep. 
Hopes good and stout, like ships, go out 
Freighted with pleasure, sailing about ; 
Some survive and come back again. 
Some are lost on the raging main. 
Some are wrecked within sight of land, 
Like hopes that perish within our hand : 
Come and go, ebb and flow, 
We all go out in the under-tow. 

Birds fly high in the summer sky, 

lyike our ambition when first we try ; 

But, in the storm, they take alarm, 

And fly to the shore to escape from harm ; 

But next day, when storms clear aw^ay, 

Birds and ambition fly over the bay : 

Off" and awa}^ in youth's fair day. 

Never once resting — no delay : 

On land and in sky, below and on high, 

vSailing forever until we die : 

Come and go, ebb and flow. 

Back and forth we ever go : 

What is beyond we do not know% 

But we all go out in the under-tow. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 127 



AFTER MANY YEARS. 



After years of journey, 

After many years, 
I am back at home again 

Shedding glad, glad tears; 
Friends are here to meet me, 
Neighbors here to greet me, 
Yet these seem sad, sad dreams. 

After man}' 3'ears. 

When I went away, some friends 

Were just in their prime. 
Now they are old and wrinkled. 

Showing tracks of time; 
And here I meet again, 
Down in the shady lane. 
Some dear one I lov'd when young — 

Ah, is love a crime? 

Shame-faced we meet again 

And hold out our hands; 
Often I had thought of her 

While in other lands; 
Holding her hand so tight. 

On this calm summer night. 
Standing so meek — neither can speak, 

Make no demands. 



128 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



She is another's wife, 

And never again 
Will she be my own sweetheart, 

Wh}' do I remain ? 
One look into her eyes, 
Find only there surprise — 
So we part. At my heart 

A queer, sad pain. 

Passing on down the lane 

One last look I take. 
Some impulse had caused her, too, 

The same move to make; 
Tho' I am married, too. 
And love my wife so true. 
In some wa}- all that day 

M}- heart did ache. 



FROvST BITES. 



Oh, the leaves are turning yellow 

And are looking pale and sere. 
And remind one of the gra}' hairs 

On the head of the old year ; 
The}' are trembling in the breezes, 

And so hopelessly they fall 
To old mother earth's cold bosom- 

The last resting place for all. 



SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 129 



One by one the leaves are dropping, 

Like the mother's silent tears 
On the grave of some beloved 

Of the long-past, happ}^ years ; 
They are falling, falling, falling, 

Soon the trees will all be bare. 
And their arms, so long and naked. 

Stand like beggars ev'ry where. 

I have seen the western farmer 

Stripped as bare, or even worse. 
By the frosty money-lender 

And his cruel mortgage curse ; 
I have seen bare limbs of children 

In poverty's exposure. 
When the homestead was frost-bitten 

By the mortgage's foreclosure. 

And the farmer" s hard-earned dollars. 

Like the sered and yellow^ leaf, 
Keep on dropping, dropping, dropping. 

On the legal mortgage thief. 
There's no hope for the poor farmer ; 

There are no warm winds to bring 
Back a bran-new suit of clothing. 

Like the trees get in the spring. 

Oh, Jehovah's frosts are cruel. 
And no mercy do they show^ ; 

They delight to kill and slaughter, 
Spreading death where e'er they go ; 



I30 SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



But the yellow leaves now falling 

Are not victims of a curse, 
Like the blood-stained, hard-earned dollars 

Squeezed from out the farmer's purse. 



QUOTIN' SKRIPTOOR. 



"Blessed are the poor in spirit" — read the preacher from 

the book, 
And the poor old mortgaged farmer raised up with a startled 

look. 

"That means you and me, Samantha; fur our speerits's 

might}' low: 
Since w^e signed that dad-bin mortgage we hain't got half 

a vshow." 

"For theirs is the kingdom of heav'n " — read the preacher 
then again. 

"That's all right fur us, Samantha, that's the promise, 

plump and plain; 
But our children, dog-gone-nation ! what do they get in 

the deal ? 
If there's not some explanation, don't you think they otter 

squeal ? 



SOjVC/S of the desert. 131 



* ' The hairs of your head are numbered ' ' — read the preacher 

then aloud, 
And again the mortgaged farmer's face appeared above the 

crowd : 

"Silas Cruncher, don't 3'o' hear him — hear what the good 

book has said ? 
A 'most ann}' one could count them scatterin' hairs upon 

yo'r head. 
But what I'd like ter know partic'lar, when old Cruncher's 

debt falls due. 
When he goes up with low speerits, will St. Peter pass him 

through ? 
If he then presents the number of the hairs to heaven 

due. 
And demands a full collection, what will we poor bald 

heads do ? 

' ' By its fruit the tree is known ' ' — read the preacher louder 
still , 

But the mortgaged farmer said, "You have gotter wait 

until 
The fruit is ripe and full matoord, and jist reddy fur to 

fall. 
Before you judge it right and square, and give justice 

plump ter all. 
But that early apple tree in the corner of my lot, 
I've been thinkin' all along is the best tree I have got; 
But the duced gaul-darn bo3\s, long before the fruit is ripe. 
Come at night when I'm in bed and ev'ry dad-bim apple 

swipe. 



132 SOX(7S OF THE DESERT. 



" The wind blovveth where it listeth " — read the preacher 

louder yet, 
And up jumped the mortgaged farmer: "That's the gospel 

truth, you bet ! 
Sometimes it blows through my whiskers in the gayest, 

wildest glee ! 
And right through my week-day trousers where the patches 

otter be. 
Wind has got more dad-bim freedom than the people ever 

wish. 
For it blowss through Jones' barn yard, then right inter \\\\ 

soup dish." 

Then the preacher closed the Bible, — he was mad for a 

divine, — 
Quoting once more in conclusion, "Cast not pearls before 

the swine !" 



THE CHIEF END OF MAN. 



There's only one life to endure of, 
And only one death that we're sure of, 
But we try to obtain the whole earth for gain, 
And shove God's miserable poor off. 



SOiVGS OF THE DESERT. 133 



THE SILENT SOMEWHERE. 



See the man pose avS a villain, 

So drunken, brutal, coarse and mean ; 
He has murdered a civilian, 

Stained with blood the grass so green. 
See him wave his knife so gory, 

While the moon shines bright above him : 
Ah, if we only knew^ his stor}^ 

Somewhere, sometime, some one loved him. 

He was once a smiling baby, 

Pressed against a mother's breast, 
And that mother somewhere, maybe, 

In her heart loves him still best. 
See, he now beholds his victim ; 

No thought of remorse can move him, 
Will that mother's heart convict him ? 

Somewhere, sometime then un-love him ^ 

And that woman, low and fallen. 

Reeling drunken through the street, 
Somewhere some poor heart is calling 

God to stop her wandering feet. 
Whisky w411 her conscience smother, 

Drown the thoughts that come to move her, 
But she knows there is a mother 

Somewhere who w^ill always love her. 



134 SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



Even in her sin and folly, 

When her thonghts go back to home, 
In her sober melancholy, 

vShe knows that she still ma\' come 
Back to home, and back to mother, 

With the dear old roof above her. 
Oh, this thought she cannot smother, 

vSomehow she will always love her. 

After this frail life has hurried 

Past us, like a fleeting breath, 
And we all are dead and buried 

In the silent sleep of death. 
Will these mothers in the somewhere, 

Un-like earthly mothers prove? 
Will the3^ somehow, sometime find there 

The}' have lost their mother-love? 

Oh, this something, sometime, somehow, 

Something we are hoping for ! 
Sometime something cannot come now 

On this side death's open door. 
Somehow we hope to be found there 

In this somewhere up above ; 
Somehow joys will then abound there, 

Tho' in hell are some we love. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



135 



SHE NEVER KNEW. 



When I close my eyes in dreaming 

Of the dreary long ago, 
There 's a little face conies beaming, 

Fills my heart with warmest glow; 
For I knew her when a maiden, 

Saw her growing day b\- day. 
When her soul with joy was laden, 

And she stole my heart away. 

In ni}' dreams and castles airy, 
And all hopes I held in view, 

She was ni}^ sweet little fair}-, 
But she never, never knew. 

Long I used to sit and wonder 

How to win her little heart. 
Dream all night, and all day ponder, 

Until love became a smart: 
But she seemed so far above me. 

Fading daily from my view; 
Still I prayed that she might love me, 

But she never, never knew. 

When I thought she'd gone forever. 
Loved some one of wealth and fame. 

Still 'twas useless to endeavor 
To forget her face and name. 



136 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



Then I wrote her my sad letter, 
Told her how I loved her true, 

But would go off and forget her, 
Since I'd told her all she knew. 

Years have passed, and still I'm roaming. 

But to-da}' a letter came. 
Asking when to her I'm coming, 

And was signed by her dear name. 
She had lately found ni}' letter. 

It was lost all these years through: 
I was trying to forget her, 

And she never, never knew. 

x\nd she told me in her letter 

How her hair was turning gray. 
But there is no bar or fetter 

That would drive my love awa}^ 
And she told me how she ever 

IvOved me with a love so true. 
And we should not grieve forever 

Over what she never knew\ 

Oh, the hearts that now are aching. 

Roaming far by land and sea. 
Leaving other fond hearts breaking. 

All because they could not see. 
And when old age conies on creeping. 

They may meet, these lovers true, 
And they '11 cry, midst all their weeping: 

Oh, I never, never knew ! 



sojVGS of the desert. 



CHANGES. 



The flowers are blooming as sweetly 

As they did in the long ago, 
And the birds are feathered as neatly, 

The cock has the same boastful crow; 
But the songs of the birds seem older, 

And more commonplace to me; 
The winds of the winter seem colder — 

Nothing seems like it used to be. 

When the world was stranger and newer. 

And I was then onl}^ a boy. 
When sorrows were lighter and fewer, 

And ev'rything filled me with joy. 
The days seemed much longer and merry. 

And all nature seemed filled with glee; 
Now the world seems changed in a flurry. 

But the changes are all in me. 

The boys who are now^ in the meadows. 

Who are playing the games of old. 
There's none of them heeding the shadow^s, 

There 's none of them heeding the cold; 
And they 're just as happy as we were, 

And the days are as long and free. 
And I'd give all the world to be there. 

Without all these changes in me. 



138 SO.XGS OF THE DESERT. 



Life seems like a cord unwinding 

From a turn -stile fast to the ground, 
And each year new scenes we are finding, 

As we keep on walking around; 
We get farther out in the shadows. 

With our life-chord trailed on the ground. 
Till at length we have crossed life's meadows. 

And the strange chord is all unwound. 



WHAT THE SPIRITvS TOLD ME. 



Note. — This poem was written in the old home in Hardscrabble, 
ten years ago, and while I was living a bachelor life among the 
dear old hills where first I saw the greedy- world. I have followed 
the spirit's advice. 



Last night sitting weak and weary, 
In my home, so lone and drearj^ — 
Where the voice of gentle woman never falls upon my ear. 
By the dim light on the table, I was writing a strange 
fable, 
Hoping thereby to be able to make life less cold and drear. 
Ah, the world knows not the struggles, nor the sad dis- 
couraged tear 

Dropping on the hopes I bury 
Every day throughout the year. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 139 



All my loved ones death havS taken, 
And my heart by grief is shaken, 
And the old house seems as lonel}^ sad and gloomy as the 
tomb; 
And, while I am sitting napping, all around I hear 
strange tapping, 
And some unseen power rapping all around the dismal room ; 
And outside I hear strange noises, 
Mingling with the midnight gloom. 

"Gentle spirit, if 3^ou know me. 
Rap in answer, please, and show me 
What to write to please the public; for, in truth, I do not 
know. 
Shall I write of wealth and treasure, worldly sports and 
earthly pleasure, 
Men of money without measure, dressed in diamonds for 
vain show ? ' ' 

This I asked, and all the spirits 
With loud rapping answered, "No! " 

"Shall I write of war and plunder. 
Battles fierce and cannon's thunder, 
Where the nations meet in battle, and the blood of soldiers 
flow? 
Where rulers fight to gain possession, or seek revenge 
for some transgression. 
Or to crush men for secession, laying forms of traitors low ?' ' 
This I asked those midnight spirits 
And again they answered, "No! " 



140 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



' 'Shall I write of the oppression 
By the men who hold possession 
Of this world, which God has given, leaving many in 
distress ? 
Shall I ridicule the powers — tyrants in this world of ours, 
Raining wealth on some in showers, while the poor they 
sore oppress ? ' ' 

Scarcely had these words been uttered 
When the spirits answered, "\-es! " 

' 'Shall I defend the babes of cities. 
Born in slums, where no heart pities? 
All the world seems closed against them, and their hopes 
are dark as night. 
Christian men, 'tis true, deplore them, but argue, there 
is no room for them. 
Shall I write, t3'rants, restore them to the place the}' own 
b}' right ? ' ' 

And the spirits quickly answered, 
"Of these wrongs we bid you write! " 

Now the morning winds were blowing, 
And the barn-3-ard cocks were crowing, 
When the spirits ceased their rapping, vanished with the 
shade of night. 
Soon the vSun o'er the hills came peeping, and into ni}' 
room came creeping. 
Shone on me as I sat sleeping, 'woke me with its brilliant 
light; 

Remembering all the spirits told me: 
"Of these wrongs we bid vou write! " 



SONdS OF T//E DESERT. 141 



WHO LIES HERE. 



"Here lies" — the cold tombstone said, 
In the garden of the dead, 
Underneath the angel's head. 

Carved neatly on the stone — 
"Here lies honored William Jones; 
Peace to his ashes and bones; 
Christ for his sins now atones — 

To heaven he has gone." 

Sa3's I to myself — saA'S I, 
While reading and passing b^', 
"How eas}' it is to lie; 

But who is lying here ? 
If the tombstone man knew Jones 
When carving these marble stones 
To mark the place where his bones 

Lie, he lied himself, I fear." 

I seldom speak ill of the dead, 
Bnt Jones is the man who said 
The laborers can be fed 

On one dollar a week; 
But it cost him te?i to dine. 
And pa}- for his costly wine; 
But then he could pray, and shine 

In the church — he had cheek. 



142 SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



The stone carving man, I know, 
Has quite a mission below. 
In telling where people go. 

Who leave in a doubtful state. 
Wh}^ don't his conscience rebel? 
And, sometimes, just up and tell 
That some people go to — well, 

It's called sheol of late. 

When I am dead and buried, 
And to the grave-yard hurried, 
I don't want strangers flurried 

B}^ reading this to fag 'em: 
"Faraw^ay Moses lies here;" 
Because they'll believe it, I fear. 
And sa}' to themselves, ''Oh, dear, 

Satan will surely gag him! " 



ORANDPA'S BABY 



Good land of goshen, our Jennie's got a kid! 

Named him after his granddad, so she did, 

Like a dutiful daughter; Jennie is that. 

Gentle, like her mother, and big and fat, 

With her great round eyes that move so slow and true; 

I tell you, Jane's equals are very few. 

But, good lands, just to think how fast time flies; 



so AGS OF THE DESERT. 143 



Baby, childhood, whiskers — then the man dies. 
It seems but yesterda}' since I went to school. 
To parse grammar accordin' to the rule. 
And now I'm a granddaddy — good lands of joy! 
To think our Jane has a bab}- boy! 
Why, it seems but a week past over my head 
Since my sweetheart, Betsey, and I were wed, 
And now she's a grandma! and I'm a granddad ! 
And I'm as lean as the last run of vShad, 
And my knees wobble when I go out to walk, 
And these old snags of teeth bother my talk; 
And already the neighbors call me old man, 
Tho' I try to be as brisk as I can. 
And, good lands of goshen, it seems that I have 
One foot in childhood, and one in the grave; 
And the rest of life has slip'd through my legs, 
Like swift water running between two pegs. 
And life seems to be gettin' so awful cold 
Since Betsey and I are growing so old; 
But I'll sing to our grand-child, nevertheless, 
And forget all life's worry and distress: 
Hip-per-ty Hop-per-ty, up and down we go! 
Toots-el-ly woots-el-ly here we stop — whoa! 
Old ginger snap on horseback, here we trot so! 
Baby's glad, grandpa's sad — no one will know. 



141 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



WE ARE BLIND. 



No one knows the secret sighing, 
Sobbing, in a neighbor's heart; 

No one knows the fond hopes ch'ing, 
No one knows the cruel smart. 

No one knows the hungr_v yearning 
Of a neighbor's cheerless soul; 

No one knows how grief is burning 
In the heart where hope grows cold. 

None but God knows each desire; 

He knows all things in our mind: 
Sees hope fanned by passion's fire, 

Knows that love and hope are blind. 

When from loved ones we do sever, 
And to far-off countries go. 

If we knew we'd see them never — 
Oh, 'tis better not to know! 

If we knew the da}- and minute 
Death would strike the fatal blow. 

Life would have less pleasure in it. 
And 'tis better not to know. 

Thus, in darkness, hope is ever 
Building castles in our mind, 

Cheering soul with visions clever. 
For, like love, our hope is blind. 



SO.XGS OF THE DESERT. 145 



In our 3-outh what bright creations 
Hope will picture in our mind, 

Lift us to some lofty station — 
But alas! our hope is blind. 

Hope grows dim as we grow older, 
Castles crumble in our mind; 

Youthful loves grow colder, colder! 
God have niercv — we are blind! 



JILTED. 



All I ever loved I lost, 

All I lost who once loved me; 

Life is hardh- worth the cost; 
Why not set this poor soul free ? 

Friends I had, but thus I proved them: 

The}- were friendh' until I 
Proved by actions that I loved them, 

When all friendships seemed to die. 

The choicest flowers of creation 

Seem to flourish until I 
Give to them ray admiration , 

Then they wither up and die. 

So with flowers, so with friends — 
Other hearts with joy the}^ fill; 

Where I love all friendship ends, 
]\Iv affecTiions seem to kill. 



146 SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 



There's the oddest sort of feelin' a bedoozlin' at one's 

heart, 
When the pray'r meetin' is over, an' the girls begin to 

start 
Towards the church door, a fiissin' an' a fixin' on their 

hats ; 
An' your heart begins to flutter in sich orful pittipats. 

'Cause there's the girl you're lovin' jist as hard as 3'ou 

kin love, 
Edgin' up towards your rival, an' 3'ou haven t gall to 

move. 
An' crowd 3'ourself in between 'em an' jist offer her your 

arm, 
'Cause 3'ou're not so deuced certain of the love of the 

school marm. 

An' so, there you stand a waitin' jist outside the church 

front door. 
With 3^our heart a pitti-pattin' 'till your ribs are feelin' 

sore. 
An' when the school marm comes at last, an' you're most 

half dead with fright. 
Your rival scoops her up an' goes off triumphant in the 

nig-ht. 



SONGS OF THE DESERT. 147 



Oh, that orful jealous feelin' that keeps gnawin' at your 

soul ! 
As you walk along behint 'em with your blood a runnin' 

cold ; 
How you hate that stuck-up rival, an' wish you was big 

an' vStout 
AnufF to throw him down an' pound him, and gouge his 

both e3-es out. 

Oh, I know just what I'm sayin', 'cause I've been there 

once myself, 
An' I know that orful feelin' when you git laid on the 

shelf; 
When your heart feels so bedoozled that you hardly sleep 

or eat, 
An' you don't know if your brains are in your gizzard or 

your feet. 

An' you go around a mopin' with 3-our e\'es a lookin' down, 
An' the o'n}- thought that's in your head is Mary Ida 

Brown; 
An' in the spring-time, when the birds all come back again 

to nest, 
Your mother buys a liver pad for to strengthen up your 

chest. 



X4S SO.VGS OF THE DESERT. 



RETROSPECT. 



Somehow I never had a wish to be a boy again, 
To suffer with stone bruises and little stomach pain; 
Biit if I could go back again and live ni}- childhood o'er, 
I'd want to be a little cuss just like I was before; 
To be the same old bo\^ I was some thirty years ago, 
The little harum scarum the neighbors used to know; 
To hunt for squirrels on Sunday, and fish for horned chubs. 
To climb the trees for chestnut burs, like little hungr}' cubs; 
But of all the boyish joys and delightful happy moods, 
There's none like stealing roasting ears and cook them in 
the woods. 

I never shall forget the gang who joined me in the feast. 
Who went along to steal the corn, and never cared the least 
About the sin committed in the middle of the night. 
For we thought that boys could never do anything that's 

right 
And good and pious, like Sunday school girls would do. 
So we went in for a good time, roast corn and chicken stew; 
And some would steal the pots and salt from off the kitchen 

shelf, 
And others to the cornfield hie, and each one help himself 
To neighbor Crawford's earh' corn, that dear, delicious food, 
Then roast the ears like cannibals, on top of burning wood. 

Then after the feast was over, and cobs were gnawed off 

clean, 
Would begin the vStory telling while lolling on the green; 



SOXGS OF THE DESERT. 149 



And while one boy was spinning a legend or home-made 

lie, 
We'd la}' on onr backs so dream}- and look towards the sky. 
When Eli Johnson's turn came he'd tell such an awful tale, 
We'd all snug up together and lie in a bunch and cjuail; 
He'd tell of the ghosts his father saw 'wa^' be3'ond the sea, 
x\nd headless spooks his mother saw^ over in Germany; 
And there we'd lay and tremble with a tingling in our 

blood, 
When we used to steal the roasting ears and cook them in 

the wood. 

Where, oh, where, are these boys to-day? vScattered from 

sea to sea; 
And some are mouldering in the grave, from every pain set 

free. 
Eli is down in Florida with flowers every da}-; 
Jeff. Farley at Pomona in California; 
Will Langdon, and little Sammy, and grumbling old Sie 

Fink, 
Frank Haslett, Buck Rr_van and Skip — all scattered, just 

to think ! 
And I am scattered some, too, from the scenes of childhood's 

day, 
x\nd the faces of that dear old crowd seem so far away; 
But, with closed e3'es, I see the spot where Eli Johnson 

stood, 
The nights we stole the roasting ears and cooked them in 

the wood. 



I50 SONGS OF THE DESERT. 



GOING TO IMILIv. 



Man is like an old tow sack, 

Full of little seeds; 
Each variety represents 

His good or wicked deeds. 

Time is like a reaper, 

Mowing down life's leaves; 
Memory is the gleaner. 

Gathering np the sheaves. 

All the sheaves are garnered 

Within the bus}- brain ; 
When old age comes to thresh them, 

Memory brings them forth again. 

Threshed ind winnowed out by pain. 

In nature's mill they fall; 
Death will pulverize each grain, 

Then claim the sack and all. 

Then let us all be neighborh-, 

Climbing life's rough hill; 
The rich will ride, the poor must walk, 

But all are going to mill. 



